


Afraid Not

by cloudsarefluffy



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (Jaskier), Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fic has artwork, Graphic Description, Idiots in Love, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, M/M, Mutual Pining, My First Work in This Fandom, Not Canon Compliant, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Possession, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Song of the White Wolf, Temporary Muteness, Toss a coin to your witcher, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), Yennefer is Badass, mention of needles, no beta we die like witchers, not mine apart from the small bit at the beginning, please do not repost fic or art, probably abused italics and bolded text with this but oh well, some people might not be comfortable with certain descriptions, some song lyrics in fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:07:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 42,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23048275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudsarefluffy/pseuds/cloudsarefluffy
Summary: “If we are to use you as bait to lure our possessed Witcher here to Kaer Morhen, do you understand what that entails?”Jaskier nods, but he remains quiet.A slight tremor works its way into his right hand, and Yennefer smirks at its appearance.The sorceress scoffs faintly, and she approaches him. There is something in her violet eyes, like a spark that proceeds the wildfire it causes as she comes close, her voice growing low and sharp.“He will hunt you,” Yennefer whispers, as though she is reciting some sort of spell, bewitching as she is sardonic, “You cannot hide from him. You cannot outrun him. You cannot overpower him.”Jaskier swallows, but he does not waiver. Not even as Yennefer begins to circle him.Despite the tears in her dress and the dirt that clings to her form, she remains as entrancing as ever. It’s as though she’s a fever dream Jaskier can only spot from the corners of his eyes.Her words come to Jaskier like a mirage, a silhouette muddled in fog. The only solid sensation coming from her being the race her words bring to his heart.“You will be at the Witcher’s mercy.”Thatshouldscare Jaskier.But it doesn't.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 83
Kudos: 1265
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	Afraid Not

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all!
> 
> So, this is my first ever Witcher fan fic. 
> 
> I'll admit, I don't know too much about the lore, be it book or game, and there's not too much shown in the show just yet. However, I have picked up a copy of Witcher 3 on the Switch, and I've been delving more and more into this world as a whole.
> 
> That being said, don't expect this fic to be compliant with anything. I guarantee it won't be. I took concepts from both the show and the games (as I haven't read the books, I'm unsure if I'm taking any unintentional muse from them, either).
> 
> Otherwise, I hope you all can read this and enjoy it for what it is! I had fun creating my own "monster" for Geralt and Jaskier to face. Can't get enough of these two idiots.
> 
> And of course, before the show begins, a few disclaimers:  
> \- **Please do not repost my story or art.** (Art is posted separately on my tumblr as well, sunshinexlollipops.)  
> \- the song lyrics mentioned in this fic (apart from the ones at the very beginning) belong to the Netflix series (link in bottom author's note).  
> \- some descriptions in this fic may disturb some people, so reader discretion is advised!
> 
> Should be it!
> 
> Enjoy!~

_“There were flowers in her hair, a twinkle in her eyes. But now tonight she is bare, a man keen between her thighs—”_

“Must you always sing about sex?”

Jaskier stops from where he had been strumming at his lute, his face drawing up and contorting with offense. From where he walks at the back of their sad parade leading away from Vengerberg, Jaskier feels himself grow hot with irritation.

“It’s about _love,_ you dolt! But even so, you already shot down every other type of ballad,” Jaskier says defiantly, “I’m only trying to lighten the mood after the _warm welcome_ we just received from Vengerberg.”

Before him, the silver-haired Witcher hums. His broad back faces the bard as Roach lumbers along the road, her head hung low in light of their wounded pride. 

Jaskier swears, despite the land growing more wild with their increasing distance from the capital, he can still hear the townsfolk swearing at them, cursing and banning them all the same. Wincing some as he takes a breath of air, Jaskier scents the unfortunate aroma from the rotten food they assaulted them both with, and it seems that their organic weaponry has muddled his once pristine doublet.

Jaskier is admittedly bitter about it.

“Well, what would you like me to sing about then, _o’great Witcher?_ Plague? Bread? Unicorns?”

The Witcher does not turn to face Jaskier as he gravels, “I’d prefer if you wouldn’t sing at all.”

Rolling his eyes, the troubadour feels his mood sour further. While being used to Geralt's barb, he still somewhat takes the jabs at his music personally. He's a poet after all. It's as much his craft as monster slaying is to the Witcher in front of him.

But still, Jaskier relents, and he slides his lute to his back, pulling its strap over his chest. 

The dying light of day has Jaskier on edge as they continue to meander along away from the safety of the capital. After all, Jaskier had expected a nice night spent in the comforts of an inn, with fine food and ale in his belly.

But that was soon shot to hell shortly after they arrived in Vengerberg. Bitter still, he is.

“Fine. No music,” at Jaskier’s supposed surrender, Geralt hums, sighing with content right up until Jaskier speaks again a second later, “But if you thought that would earn you silence, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“It’s a miracle no one has killed you yet.”

 _Oh._ Geralt is in a bit of a mood. 

Not too different from his usual self though, honestly. The man himself _is_ a mood, and often not a pleasant one. It was known the monster-slayer was definitely not the hospitable type, and Jaskier is sure he has met rabid dogs more welcoming than the Witcher before him.

The monster slayer was as guarded as he was off-putting, generally cold and dismissive to everyone around him. His face is kept impassive or in a constant scowl, and Jaskier can count on a hand the number of times he's seen the Witcher smile. The poet knows better than most just how rare it is to see Geralt truly express anything other than his contempt or annoyance.

So after five years of travel as Geralt’s companion, Jaskier has learned to read all of his subtleties, much to Geralt’s dismay.

The pinch to his brow. The tight hold on Roach’s reins. The way his nostrils flare while his amber eyes do not waiver off the road before him. 

Geralt is angry.

Or at least perturbed. Either by irritation or disappointment, surely. 

But Jaskier does not need to psychoanalyze his expression to know why.

The contract they had come to Vengerburg for seemed decent. Calling for Geralt or anyone else brave enough to investigate the possible presence of a beast of some sort, killing townsfolk that wandered outside of the capital’s protection. 

Whatever was happening had gone on for a month now— beginning with a young couple who had gone missing, and now remaining in a fatalistic limbo with ten other souls joining their unfortunate tally.

Geralt, after discovering the contract at a small village's notice board outside of the capital, seemed unusually keen to figure out just what was causing all of this heartbreak and death. Jaskier could tell this job would be a personal one, as much as the Witcher claimed his contracts to never be anything other than superficial. But they were undercurrents. A toiling beneath what seemed like calm waters, a great concern masked by a stoned grimace.

This one bothered Geralt. The monster slayer knew immediately that something bad was afoot. 

Hell, even _Jaskier_ knew. Twelve people gone in the span of a few weeks, just right outside the capital of Aedirn?

Even the poet didn’t have to be a Witcher to know that Vengerberg has a serious problem on their hands.

But, despite Geralt's concern, the the pay seemed good. Coin was promised from high in Aedirn’s court, as this was a pest that apparently garnered the attention of someone important. 

So, in light of all their motives, there was no fuss about their decision to head to the capital. While they traveled the short distance between the small village and Vengerberg, they plotted how they would spend their days till Geralt offered the capital some resolve, and the head of the beast that plagued them.

Geralt would take however long he needed to discover and slay the creature, while Jaskier would spend the time he hunted singing and performing in the local taverns. Both ventures promised good pay, beds for the night, and ale partnered with warm meals and comforts. 

However, it became apparent very quickly that they were not to reap from Vengerberg's prosperity.

Much to Jaskier's annoyance, Geralt hadn’t even gotten to seek the contract’s creator out before things went to shit. 

Geralt had only gotten as far as trying to navigate the city before he was swarmed and told to leave. The mob he faced forced the Witcher to abandon his route for the capitol building, and he came for Jaskier not long after. The bard had only been two songs in at the tavern, his coin purse barely filled with earnings before Geralt grabbed him by the arm, leaving them to scramble away with the meager take.

God, if the contract Geralt had found could’ve been fulfilled, and if Jaskier had gotten to sing more than a few songs at the tavern before they were run out, they could’ve made _quite_ a bit of gold!

But alas. Destiny had other plans for them than an easy night and time.

“You're right, Geralt. I’m truly surprised by it myself. It does seem like I have common scrapes with death. So much so, it’s a shocker I’m still topside.”

"Don't be a smartass..."

"Says the kettle."

Looking towards the thickening trees, ones that begin to grow in number and height, the infamous woods surrounding the capital begin to pick up in their density. They also grow darker with the fading light, and Jaskier swallows thickly.

Placing his hands onto his hips as he walks, Jaskier continues to ramble, following after the Witcher.

“It's a miracle for both of us really. Especially with what just happened back there, in town. I’ve never seen such a violent group of people! I mean, maybe a little watered down for me and what I’ve experienced— after all, I'm sure you still remember that blasted shit hole in Posada... And while I admit I might have had a mob or two after a performance, I've never had as a poor of a reception as I just had tonight! All of that was downright inhumane treatment!”

“If you aren’t human, inhumane is what you get,” Geralt drawls, but there is no bitterness in his voice, no surprise, “Especially in Aedirn.”

“Right. Country of humans and piss off to whatever else,” waving a hand flamboyantly, Jaskier still prattles on, “But surely they understand what a Witcher is truly for! You’re not some forest hag to bring mighty curses or steal their livestock! They understand that you were human once too, right? That you were made into a Witcher to protect them?”

Geralt says nothing, and Jaskier puts a bit more speed in his step, only slowing until he is right at Geralt’s side. The Witcher keeps on looking ahead, ignoring the bard as he walks adjacently alongside him while he guides Roach.

“This is exacly why I joined you on your journey five years ago. To try and get people to understand you, Geralt. And, by Melitele, maybe I could even get them to _accept_ you too,” Jaskier has an unusual sense of seriousness in his voice, and the poet can see the squint of Geralt’s glare on the road soften just a little, “You aren’t a monster. I've always tried to show them that.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything, but instead, he stops Roach. Blinking, Jaskier begins wondering what the Witcher is up to until the man turns his head, looking in the opposite direction of the poet and into the woods.

“Geralt?”

 _“Quiet,”_ the Witcher commands, voice low as he closes his eyes, sniffing the air, “I’m trying to make sure we are alone.”

Jaskier swallows, feeling his skin prickle nervously as Geralt remains frozen as he is. A breeze rolls past, lifting the loose ends of Geralt’s hair and fluttering it behind him, carrying the scents of the world beyond them with it.

Geralt hums, shoulders relaxing some.

And then, his eyes open.

Amber irises regard the woods, seeing farther than Jaskier ever could through the trees, let alone with the dying light. The woods seem to grow a bit more ominous with the oncoming threat of dark, and Jaskier shifts a little at Roach’s side.

Saying nothing, Geralt spurs Roach, turning her to the left.

And wordlessly, Jaskier follows. 

The Witcher leads them off of the main road and into the forest, leaving Jaskier to feel more and more nervous as they delve off into the woods. He holds his hands uneasily at his sides, trying to make sense out of the world before him while attempting to keep up with Geralt. And despite Jaskier struggling with the impending darkness twilight brings, Roach easily puts him to shame, navigating the narrow space between the trees with ease.

After a good moment of this trek, Jaskier feels his nerves bubble up his throat, and he finds his unease escaping him in the form of tepid words, “Geralt? What are we doing here?”

“We need to get set up before nightfall,” the Witcher answers easily, almost too easily, as though Jaskier should be smarter than this, “Main roads are safer than anything else, but night rarely is.”

“R-Right…” Jaskier murmurs.

Despite knowing Geralt is entirely capable of sensing creatures and men alike, night has never quite been a fear that Jaskier could shake.

He was a traveling bard, one most often traveling alone. There have been many close calls, many sleepless nights that came before his time at Geralt’s side. He knows what can lurk in shadow. He knows what things like to stay hidden until you cannot see them coming. And sometimes, knowing isn’t better.

Still, Geralt isn’t drawing _either_ of his swords, so Jaskier attempts to settle his gut as the Witcher leads him to a small clearing, hidden some yards away from the main road.

Slowing Roach, Geralt gets her to come to a stop, and he drops from the chestnut mare and regards the troubadour impassively.

“Gather up some firewood. It doesn’t smell or seem as though it’s rained recently, so you should have no trouble gathering good tinder.”

As Geralt opens one of Roach’s saddlebags, going inside to grab some item from it, Jaskier huffs, “And what will you be doing in the meantime?”

“Hunting,” the Witcher regards him, his amber eyes as unsettling as they are steady on the poet, “Unless you don’t want to eat tonight?”

Raising his hands in surrender, Jaskier moves past Geralt, “Okay, okay. No need to be an ass about it.”

Geralt hums, and Jaskier grumbles under his breath. It’s nothing intelligible, the sounds purposefully kept random and incoherent. Because while Jaskier can be ignorant in his own right, he knows better than to smart off a Witcher under his breath— especially when he _knows_ the smug bastard could hear him easily.

His efforts to remain verbally opaque earns the poet a snort from the Witcher as he walks away.

Jaskier lumbers off into the nearby trees, his brows narrowed and a scowl on his lips as he sets his eyes to the ground. It’s hard to see in the faint light of twilight, and Jaskier finds himself squinting as he gathers any bits of wood that seem decent enough to maintain a fire with. He makes sure to look up every so often, ensuring Roach is still in sight as he circles the clearing, the mare grazing about the grasses within it lazily.

After a while, he relaxes just a little, trying to comfort himself further by humming. He tries new tunes, reworks of older ones. He tests lyrics, either lighting up or cringing at their landing as he throws them into the fray, all the while carrying his growing bundle of sticks in his arms.

It doesn’t take long in his brainstorming for him to think of what happened earlier in Vengerberg, at the way they had been so unceremoniously run out of the capital. Jaskier had never seen so many angry faces all at once, and dare he say he worried about the townsfolk attacking him and Geralt as they left. The Witcher had held onto his arm tight, holding the bard close as they were assaulted with bits of rotten food and insults that were just a putrid. Most of it, however, was directed at Geralt.

Witcher. Mutant. Monster. 

_Butcher._

Jaskier had remembered how Geralt reacted when Jaskier had called him that last one, outside that odd little tavern in Posada, near the edge of the world. His gut still remembers too, the ache he felt like a ghost that lingers any time he recalls the way Geralt had hit him for calling him that, even without ill intent.

Jaskier hadn’t known. Just like how he hadn’t known about Filavendrel and the elves—at how he was convinced of one thing humans told him his whole life, only to learn that the story they told wasn’t what it seemed.

_The Butcher of Blaviken._

Jaskier remembers the tales. Growing up, he only heard about the silver-haired Witcher going into Blaviken, and more importantly, about what he did when he got there. The sky was gray, the streets damp with rain before they were reddened by blood. Twelve people murdered in the middle of town, the last being a woman, before Geralt was stopped.

They spoke of his bloodlust. His anger. The way he sliced through men with ire and ease, barely hesitating to kill them all.

And yet…

Geralt spared the sylvan, Torque. He spared Filavandrel and the elf that was with them, and gave him all the ducats he’d unknowingly been paid to kill Torque with.

There was a strangeness about the Witcher. A different side for which the title of _butcher_ could not suffice in accuracy.

And Jaskier?

That was the reason he told Geralt he would follow.

Be it onion or destiny, Geralt drew Jaskier in like nothing else. Sure, he was always great at finding the best sources for his ballads. The best stories, muses. A Witcher would always be worth a thousand songs.

But Geralt? He was worth more than just Jaskier’s music.

His reputation. His legacy.

Jaskier did not hitch himself onto Geralt’s side with the intent of writing for blood and glory, but for something more. To pull back the curtain. To teach, instead of praise.

Jaskier was to frame Geralt not in golden light, but a true one. One that people could hear, could begin to believe. To forget their prejudice, their ignorance. Jaskier intended to change not what people thought of Witchers, but what they thought of _Geralt._

_To toss more than rotten food. Insults. Even coins._

Geralt may not understand. He may not appreciate or see Jaskier’s goal as clearly as the bard does. He may act like a cold jackass when Jaskier attempts to learn about the man, to know him past that scowl and his wordless grunts. The Witcher may fight Destiny as he fights monsters, but Jaskier knows one thing for certain: his destiny is tied with Geralt’s.

And Destiny… She was an odd one at that.

Deeming his collection of stray sticks fit, Jaskier calls it, carefully holding the wood he’s gathered against his chest until he reaches the middle of the clearing. Roach barely lifts her head in acknowledgement to his return, the mare chewing impassively as Jaskier readies the fire.

The flames offer a small iota of comfort as they illuminate most of the clearing, and Jaskier settles a little as he sits down in front of it. Crickets chirp lightly in the night as Jaskier shivers lightly, the bard clearing his throat some as he pulls his lute from around his back to his front.

Practiced, calloused fingers strum at the strings, and Jaskier finds himself humming lightly to his faint playing. Soon, his humming turns to singing, and Jaskier’s voice rings into the night. He’s not overly powerful, not like he would be in a tavern when he is trying to earn coin. 

No, his voice is as tender as it is melodic, and the troubadour relishes the intimacy that his music conjures. The contentment. At how his honeyed words carry through the wind like the soft breeze that flows away from him and into the trees beyond.

However, it is a vexing that is soon broken by the distinct snap of a twig.

Jaskier stops playing immediately, eyes widening as he attempts to look in the direction he’s sure the sound came from. The bard’s throat dries, and he quickly gets to his feet, his lute clenched in his hands as he searches the dark.

Another snap.

Jaskier physically flinches at the sound, this time, with it being closer _—_ heading towards him from the treeline to his left. The poor poet can’t quite find the words for what he feels now, wondering what might be making that sound in the dark.

“Geralt?”

His callout elicits no response, and Jaskier finds himself truly beginning to feel nervous.

However, whatever had been lurking amongst the trees must’ve heard him, as there is a shuffling amongst the foliage and detritus of the forest floor. 

Jaskier holds his breath, hearing heavy, thunderous footfalls come closer and closer, his heart beginning to pick up its pace.

“G-Geralt?” the bard shakes out, and his voice grows in volume as the footfalls grow closer, louder, _faster._

A shadow appears in the treeline, one that quickly barrels towards him, and Jaskier shouts, closing his eyes and curling up against himself as his lute falls to the ground below.

_“Geralt!”_

Jaskier winces, shuddering a bit from his ragged breathing as he waits for his inevitable demise. But it never comes.

Instead, there is a chuckle that floats into the air, far too familiar and upsetting for Jaskier to feel fear any longer.

Peeking, he sees Geralt a few feet from him, smirking as he finishes humoring himself, two dead rabbits hanging limply in his left hand by his hip.

“Y-You—You—” Jaskier scrambles to his feet, his former terror quickly being replaced with anger, “You _white-haired bastard!”_

“You fright so easily,” Geralt taunts, throwing the rabbits over his shoulder.

“Easy for you to say! It’s rather cheeky of you to scare me like that when you’re supposed to _kill_ monsters, not impersonate them!” at Jaskier’s scolding, the Witcher rolls his amber eyes, letting his smirk even some as he now approaches the fire, “Took you long enough to get back, anyway…”

“I may have heightened senses, but I cannot make rabbits appear when I wish for them, Jaskier.”

"Of course. You may be a bastard, but you're not a Djinn."

The bard huffs, leaning down to grab his poor lute from the ground below. Using the firelight, the troubadour overlooks it, ensuring the instrument has retained its good condition. An unfortunate bit of mud has gotten onto the dark wood, and Jaskier curses, using his pants to try and wipe it away.

From where he has begun to cut up the rabbits to eat, Geralt hums.

“Filavandrel won’t be happy with how you’re treating his lute.”

“Well, Filavandrel doesn’t keep company with an ass such as yourself,” Jaskier fires back, “If anything, we should be questioning why you treat _me_ in such a manner.”

Raising an impassive brow, Geralt regards the bard loosely, “You’re taking this personally.”

“Of course I am! You’re a Witcher— you know better than anyone what can lurk out in woods like these! Pardon me for thinking I was about to be mauled or murdered brutally!”

Unfazed, the Witcher boasts, “I’d sense something coming within a mile or so from here. There’s no need for your nerves or upset. I wouldn’t let anything get the jump on us.”

“Well, in case you’ve forgotten, Geralt, _humans_ can’t do what you can! Meaning _I_ can’t do what you can!” 

“That is something I’m very much aware of,” the Witcher snarks.

“Oh, don’t be an ass. You know, I’d say the worst part about you is just your personality,” Jaskier begins, waving his hand as Geralt eyes him tiredly from across the fire, “You could have brown hair and blue eyes. You could smell of rotten fish and have the appearance of a drowner. You could even be a dwarf who is only good for drinking. But you wanna know what people would dislike about you most? Just who you are as a person overall.”

Geralt snorts, not even taking offense at the bard’s insult.

“I figure that, no matter what I am,” some of Geralt’s humor falls away then, “I was always destined to be hated far more than I will ever be accepted.”

The admission makes Jaskier lighten a little on his anger, and he sees the distant look hidden in Geralt’s eyes. 

Layers. That’s what the man hid behind. Like the armor that shielded him from countless beasts and adversaries. He put on a tough outside so that you may not view within, so that he could mask it.

But Jaskier was learning to know better. To _see._

“You… You truly aren’t that awful.”

Jaskier’s soft correction has Geralt glancing at him from his seat across the fire.

His amber eyes match that of the flames, warm and steady on Jaskier as the bard stares back. He notes that long scar that graces the left side of his face, having narrowly missed his eye in the process.

Jaskier remembers what had caused it. A striga— as rare as it was fatal and horrific. 

Temeria was as cold as it was ominous when he had traveled with Geralt there a little lass than five years ago. It was after having heard a rumor of a Witcher who had come before to figure out why miners and townsfolk were going missing, only to run off with the coin. Jaskier had never seen Geralt so adamant about a job before, but Jaskier knew it was for rectifying that misstep.

Geralt didn’t ever try and back down. Not when Foltest almost ran him from the city, telling them both not to come back. Not even when Geralt discovered that the curse affecting King Foltest’s daughter meant he had to fight the Striga, one that had already killed a Witcher before this, until dawn.

Jaskier had been down in the frozen safety of Temeria's castle with Triss per Geralt’s insistence. He still remembers the screaming of the creature. That hallow, woman-like screech that got down to his bones more than the cold ever would.

He had feared for Geralt. After all, one Witcher had already died trying to slay the Striga. And Geralt, he was trying to _save it._

And how Geralt almost died trying.

He was adamant, coming with Triss up into the ruins come dawn, because he _had to know._ He _had_ to know Geralt was okay, that the Striga hadn’t bested a Witcher a second time. They had found Foltest’s daughter and Geralt in the tombs where Princess Adda was laid to rest, with the girl covered in slime and other fluids that Jaskier did not want to name. She was shivering, frightened, and covered in blood.

But it was not her own. It was Geralt’s.

Jaskier had rushed to the Witcher’s side as soon as he was able, taking in the bite wound on his shoulder, at the nasty gash the man had garnered to his face through his battle during the night. He smelled of rusted iron and festering flowers, as Jaskier could see the black veins from the potions he undoubtedly drank during his battle with the Striga.

_Fear._

Jaskier had felt it still, for Geralt. As Triss got him into her quarters, working up poultices and other remedies for the Witcher. Fear clung to Jaskier like a second skin as the bard took in Geralt’s clammy and feverish state.

And Geralt stayed like this for a week, unconscious and healing while Jaskier remained at his bedside, worrying.

And when Geralt finally woke, the bed and his bandages stained with red as he strained into consciousness, he looked to Jaskier, his amber eyes finding him as they did now.

The poet feels words bubble up in his throat, coiling and demanding to be free like a bird in a gilded cage with clipped wings and a tied beak.

“You’re not—" Jaskier blurts before he can stop himself, and he presses his lips together, trying to show his sincerity, “I… I think that humans just fear what they don’t understand.”

“And yet, you weren’t afraid… You aren’t afraid,” Geralt murmurs.

“No, I mean… I just knew, even when we met at Posada…” Jaskier sighs, “I heard about you, growing up… I knew you as the Butcher,” Geralt winces at that, but, if it counts for something, he doesn’t go to hit Jaskier for saying it this time around, “But I figure, if you truly were as callous as they said you were… You wouldn’t be trying to help people. To even save some of the creatures you come across.”

Geralt cuts into the rabbits, focusing on them instead of the human across from him.

“It’s a job.”

“And yet, no one is making you do it. You seek it. Ask for it, even. You say you’re not going to get involved, but you do. You _always_ do.”

Geralt sighs, glancing back to Jaskier. His hands are bloody, his dagger more so, but Jaskier does not feel any disgust or terror at some would at the sight.

But then again, he supposes he always saw something in Geralt that others did not.

“This is the life of a Witcher,” Geralt begins, and he gestures with his tacky, crimson hands to the fire, to Roach, towards the direction of Vengerberg, “You exist in this world to take care of monsters. You find contracts, slay the beasts they call for, take your coin, and leave. That’s all there is to the Path.”

“It’s more than that.”

Geralt hums, his scowl subtle but still present, “Maybe you get treated like a monster, get rotten food thrown at you. Or, you find yourself in massive piles of other people’s shit that they demand you clean up for them. And for all that you do, you can only find yourself getting called a butcher, a _beast._ But all you can do is wander through fuck all until you’re to repeat the process again,” Geralt’s eyes narrow, “Is that better?”

Unconvinced, Jaskier quirks a brow at the monster slayer, “Vengerberg didn’t even allow you to claim your contract. You got about as far as the edge of the city before they ran you out,” Jaskier points out, “It’s not so black and white. It’s not always so straightforward.”

“Life rarely is. Even for a Witcher,” Geralt sighs, and he rips the guts out of the rabbits with a bit more force than necessary.

Jaskier’s face pinches a fraction, but he presses further, “Then why allow me to come along?”

The bard’s question makes Geralt stall once more, and the man eyes Jaskier with a harsh look about his face.

“If the life of a Witcher were to be so dull, so repetitive with its simplicity, why would you want me here for that?” Jaskier asks, “What’s the point in writing tales about you if I couldn’t write about you doing anything other than this cycle? How could I leave you a legacy that’s different from what they already know?”

“I’m not sure. I’m not the tick who latched on, am I?”

Jaskier ignores Geralt’s barb, “I know I’m stubborn, but if you didn’t want me coming along at the end of things, I wouldn’t be, no matter how hard I pushed or tried.”

Geralt only hums, and Jaskier quirks a brow at him.

“You wouldn’t have come back for me at the tavern in Vengerberg if you didn’t want me here, either,” the bard adds, “You would’ve left without telling me. Let them run you straight out of town without so much as letting me know.”

The Witcher glares at the poet from across the flames, “Must you talk so incessantly?”

“Must you glare and hum your way about your life?”

Geralt growls, low in his chest, and he skins the rabbits angrily.

“You know, you’re one of the only Witchers I know about. Even if for some things you’re not proud of.”

Geralt does not look at the bard. Instead, he takes the rabbits, spearing them on metal pikes to cook over the fire while Jaskier watches.

“But even then, I heard of you first as the White Wolf of Rivia. When I was a boy.”

The Witcher’s movements stall, and he stares into the flames. His face is schooled, and while no expression is visible there, his eyes do more than his features ever could.

“They spoke of your hair. Your eyes. How… How you were different, even by Witcher standards,” Jaskier breathes low, humming, “They were right. You’re not what they say you should be.”

Geralt’s eyes soften, and for a second, Jaskier believes that Geralt will be something other than shielded for once. However, the man shifts, his amber eyes widening while his slit pupils widening greatly.

_“Fuck.”_

“Geralt?”

Geralt ignores Jaskier, and he can see the Witcher turning his head slowly, his nostrils flaring lightly as he senses something.

Jaskier’s heart begins to pick up in tempo, and it downright races the second Geralt jumps to his feet.

Despite being dressed only in his black tunic and leather pants, Geralt doesn’t hesitate at grabbing one of the two swords held by his hip. 

_Silver._

Then what kind of creature were they about to face?

“Geralt?” Jaskier is sheepish, hearing something rustle in the brush at the other end of the clearing, “I t-thought you said you could sense something coming before it got this close…”

“I can. But something is different this time,” Geralt grits, and he glances back to Jaskier, “Go to Roach.”

“But, Geralt—"

 _“Go!”_ the Witcher bellows, “Ride to Vengerberg. Find whoever in court posted this contract!”

The human scrambles on his feet, hearing the chestnut mare at the other end of the clearing neigh fearfully as she rears. Jaskier rushes over to her, his eyes locked onto Geralt as the Witcher fearlessly turns to the other end of the clearing, his lips drawn up in a snarl as he eyes the edge of the woods venomously.

Large, snorting breaths ring out from the trees, and Jaskier can _see_ the trees move as a large, lumbering form barrels through them.

He just gets onto Roach’s saddle when the creature clears the line of trees, and Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat.  
  


It’s a large bear, larger than usual, with flesh rotting and scarred all about its body.

Even from this distance, Jaskier can smell the pungent scent of dried blood, decay, and _death_ that permeates from the massive animal. Its jaws gape, strands of saliva forming tethers between its large, foreboding canines as it roars.

“O-Oh shit,” Jaskier rushes.

_“Jaskier!”_

“Right, right! F-Fuck!”

Jaskier shakily gathers Roach’s reins, the frightened mare shifting uneasily from underneath him. The bard’s hands shake as the bear eyes Geralt, raising its lip over its teeth in an ominous warning, its eyes glowing _red_ as Geralt readies his sword.

The Witcher eyes the gigantic bear, his silver hair falling about his face as Roach digs her hooves into the earth below, and Jaskier watches as the bear stands on its hind legs. It lets out a roar that shakes the air itself, its claws glinting in the fire as it stands several feet taller than the Witcher before it.

It lands with a heavy thud, tearing up soil and grass as it charges at Geralt. The Witcher holds his ground until the last second, narrowly rolling and slashing the beast with his silver sword. 

The skin met by the blade does not react, doesn’t sizzle or seem affected apart from a decent gash Geralt’s hit had made. And much to Geralt’s surprise, the skin begins to meld itself together almost lazily. The bear circles him as Geralt gapes, looking far more irritated than injured by his efforts.

But it’s then that Roach begins to gallop away, Jaskier holding tight onto her saddle and reins as she nears the opposite edge of the clearing as Geralt is forced to continue his battle with the monster.

Jaskier can only watch in terror at the sight of Geralt trying to take on this bear, at the way he narrowly dodges its claws as it swipes at him. But the bard’s heart almost all but stops when the Witcher isn’t so lucky with its teeth, its maw getting a lock around Geralt’s shoulder, the teeth managing to encompass the first bit of his chest.

_“Geralt!”_

The Witcher’s eyes open from where they had been crinkled in pain as Roach begins to carry the bard through the depths of the trees, Geralt’s widened eyes finding the poet’s. Had it not been for their amber coloring, the way his pupils were dilated almost made the Witcher seem human _— fragile._

But it’s for one terrifying second that Jaskier sees it— sees the one thing that the Witcher has never shown him before.

_Fear._

Jaskier’s line of sight is cut off as Roach carries him through the trees, and a deep, familiar yell can be heard. Guttural and desperate as it is, chilling Jaskier to his bones as the mare weaves between the trees without the bard’s influence.

Jaskier can’t help it. He cries. Not only out of terror, but for the sinking, damning feeling in his gut as he leaves the clearing— as he leaves _Geralt—_ behind.

The Witcher. He had never cried out in pain like that. Not even in the nastier fights he had gotten into over the years. Hell, Jaskier had seen him take bites from three drowners at once, and all Geralt did was growl and cut their heads off for the trouble. 

To have heard Geralt scream...

That bear… There was something different about it. Something unnatural, even Jaskier could tell.

Thankfully, they were not too far off from Vengerberg, and the capital soon comes into sight with Roach’s diligent pace from underneath him. 

All Jaskier can think of is to try and get help. Someone— _someone_ here must be able to help him, surely! 

He arrives at the edge of Vengerberg not long after, and the stress of the ride is evident on Roach. Sweat dampens her coat, and her legs shake somewhat from her fright. Jaskier knows that the mare doesn’t scare as easily as other horses, not by a longshot with what her rider is, but to see even Roach this disturbed is unlike her.

He pays the stablehand a few gold coins, practically tossing them at the man who yells after Jaskier while he runs into Vengerberg. 

Thankfully, most of the streets are empty, forlorn with the late hour. It makes running through them so much easier as Jaskier eyes the castle, his heart thundering against his ribs while he gets closer and closer to the castle.

He pants, nearing the gates as the guards take notice of his hurried approach. They quickly block the entrance, forcing Jaskier to skid to a halt, his lute hitting against his back roughly and causing him to wince.

“We desire no bard for the night,” one of the guards growls at him.

“I’m— _fuck—_ I’m not here to play music,” Jaskier pants, “I need… There’s been—"

Fuck, who is supposed to talk to anyway? 

“State your business or _leave,_ bard,” the warning in the guard’s tone is not missed by the poet.

“The beast in the woods—it’s attacked again,” Jaskier looks between them both, growing restless, “I _need_ to speak to someone about it! I need an audience!”

“You can come in the morning, when the king is welcome to visitors.”

“Oh, _piss on that!”_ Jaskier yells, and he shoves his way past the guards.

_“Stop!”_

Jaskier doesn’t, he runs once more, bursting through the guards out front. They chase after Jaskier, shouting, their armor clanking all the way as Jaskier’s heart almost beats between his ears.

He enters the castle, hearing laughter and conversation bouncing off the inner walls. The bard chases after the echoes, the sound of people dining growing louder and louder, as the guards still call after him.

The faint sounds of a lute playing ring out in the air as Jaskier slides against the stone below, finding himself in the dining hall of the castle as the king dines with his patrons. Their feast abruptly stops as they notice Jaskier’s interruption, and the king eyes Jaskier icily as the bard approaches him.

“Who let you in here?” the king’s voice bellows, his pale, ginger hair not matching the fire in his aged eyes.

“King Virfuril,”one of the guards pants, “Our apologies, we tried to stop him, but—"

“I don’t want apologies. I want this man removed.”

Upon King Virfuril’s order, the guards go to circle Jaskier.

“Wait!” Jaskier begins to plead, feeling the guards grab onto his body, and they begin to pull him away from the king, “I need your help! It’s about the beast that’s been attacking your people!”

The king sighs, eyeing Jaskier angrily, and he motions for the guards to stop. They comply, but they do not let go of Jaskier. 

From beside King Virfuril, Jaskier spots a woman. She’s beautiful, dressed in a black fur coat that matches the raven tone of her curled hair. It’s her eyes however, that strike Jaskier the most—being _purple_ of all colors. Since the mention of the beast, Jaskier can see the curiosity in her gaze, and she straightens from her seat beside the king.

“Go on, but make it quick!” King Virfuril bellows.

“T-The beast, it’s— it’s attacked my friend,” Jaskier starts, “I had to run to get help! He was fighting it, when I last left!”

Jaskier knows that people in court are bastards. He’s played in enough cities to know this well. But at the very least, he expected some compassion for his outcry here tonight.

However, all it is met with is a laugh. 

King Virfuril is humored by this, and Jaskier doesn’t miss the way the woman at his side looks irritated at his reaction. Meanwhile, Jaskier’s gut toils, sinking and knotting in light of the king’s response to his plea.

“I’m afraid I cannot help you escape your guilt for being a coward, boy,” King Virfuril glares at the bard, his voice as harsh as the scowl appearing on Jaskier’s face, “Your friend, they are most likely dead at this point anyway. Why should this be a concern of mine?”

“Because your people are being slaughtered, you selfish ass!” Jaskier fires back, and the guards tighten their hold on him as he writhes in their grip, “Why would you even post a contract on it if you don’t want it dealt with!?”

King Virfuril’s face contorts, and he glances over to the woman at his side.

“I didn’t. But I believe I know who did…” he grits.

“King Virfuril,” the woman speaks, her voice melodic and somewhat placating then, “You must understand—"

King Virfuril slams his fist down onto the table, hissing, “I told you _not_ to!” 

The woman at his side doesn’t flinch, but the rest of the room has gone tense and quiet. Jaskier swallows thickly, glancing between this woman and the king.

“You know I do not care for this,” the king growls, eyeing the woman venomously, “Who cares if a few people die? Such a thing happens without a beast being a problem. I don’t see why we need to bother and spend such a coin on it.”

“In the month that has passed since the first disappearance of Arzirt and Mona, ten other people from Vengerberg have gone missing or turned up dead in the woods right outside the city.”

“You put more weight on the issue than what it deserves,” with a dismissive hand, King Virfuril waves off the guards, “Take this man away.”

“Please! You can’t do this!” Jaskier thrashes, and he lets his ire spill out of him like a tankard finally overflowing, having held back too much, _“You bastards!_ All of you! First you cast off the Witcher that tries to help you, and now you’re to let him _die_ for your ignorance!”

“A Witcher?”

The room stills, and Jaskier pants from where he has slouched in the grip of King Virfuril’s guards. It’s the woman that has spoken this time, and Jaskier meets her gaze. Her interest is obvious, and she stands from her chair.

“By what name is this Witcher?”

“The White Wolf,” Jaskier breathes, _“Geralt of Rivia.”_

The woman’s violet eyes widen, and even King Virfuril seems surprised at Jaskier’s answer.

“You have to help him, _please,”_ Jaskier begs, and he quickly pulls away from the guards who have since let him go, “Whatever you can do. Just help him!”

The woman looks to King Virfuril, and she seems to make up her mind. Without the king’s permission, she steps away from the table, looking at Jaskier sternly as she rounds its end.

“Have you eaten lately?” she asks.

Confused, the bard eyes her with bewilderment, “What on earth would you need to know that for?”

At the table, King Virfuril stands, looking at the woman with growing irritation, “Yennefer! What are you doing?”

“What we should’ve done long ago.”

But as soon as the words are out of her mouth, the air stirs behind Jaskier. A wind blows at his back, and Jaskier jumps at its sensation, turning to see a circle of wisps spinning and opening a portal that this apparent sorceress approaches.

“Yennefer! Stop! I order you at once!”

Yennefer stops in front of Jaskier, taking a deep breath, “Let’s hope you have a strong stomach.”

Jaskier blinks, “A strong—wait, why would I—"

Jaskier doesn’t get to finish, as the sorceress shoves him forward and into the portal.

Jaskier screams. 

Forgive him, but it’s not everyday that the bard finds himself shoved through a magical portal going Melitele knows where. And the feeling of going through it is odd to describe, like a thousand unpleasant sensations occurring at once, inside and outside of his body. It’s like his skin is being scraped while his insides turn, and it is not something that Jaskier finds himself fond of.

Belatedly, Jaskier realizes, as he passes through the portal and lands on the ground before him on his knees, why Yennefer had asked him if he had eaten before this. If he had managed to eat any of the rabbit Geralt had caught them, it surely would be in the grass before him now.

He coughs, spitting against the ground in attempt to quell his sudden bout of nausea as he hears a delicate landing in the grass behind him. Glancing miserably over his shoulder, he manages to catch the sight of Yennefer’s portal closing behind her as she looks out into the woods that surround them.

Struggling to his feet, the bard looks around, placing his hands on his knees while he realizes that Yennefer had brought them into the woods he had run from not too long ago.

“This beast,” Yennefer begins, and she holds out her hand, summoning a small orb of light that goes to float above her head, “what was it?”

“A-A bear,” the bard stutters, and he finds that they are on the edge of the main road.

Yennefer’s face pinches, and she regards Jaskier doubtfully, “Just a bear?”

“It wasn’t _just a bear,”_ Jaskier hisses, and he forces himself to stand, his eyes looking out into the woods beyond, “It… It had glowing red eyes. It was larger than it should’ve been, and looked like it was rotting… It didn’t even react to Geralt’s silver sword.”

Yennefer hums, and Jaskier thinks at that moment that she and Geralt would probably get along perfectly as she steps away, leaving the bard behind. She must sense something, and Jaskier rushes after her as she walks fearlessly through the woods.

The smell of something burnt lingers in the air like fog, and Jaskier’s nose twitches as he catches up to the sorceress, staying behind her.

“Do you have any idea what it could be?” Jaskier asks, voiced hushed, “I… I don’t think Geralt even knew what it was.”

“Afraid your Witcher would know more than I about the creatures he could encounter,” Yennefer tells him.

Jaskier curses, and his eyes set upon the clearing as it comes into view.

The space that had once been welcoming no longer feels as much, now completely dark except for the limited view that Yennefer’s light offers. The air feels stagnant and cold, and Jaskier can feel the hairs on his arms stand on end, as though something here _isn’t right._

“There’s… It’s almost like magic,” Yennefer comments, almost talking to herself as she looks about the clearing, “Whatever you came across, it feels… different.”

Jaskier spots the remnants of the fire, now having been put out. The wood still glows, and there is a slight heat to it. The rabbits that Geralt had been cooking for them are charred to a crisp, and Jaskier’s stomach sinks as he continues looking.

Despite there being no bear or Geralt in sight, the clearing shows signs of their battle. Large claw marks and paw prints riddle the ground, with large chunks of grass and earth torn away from where the bear had charged the Witcher. But more damingly, there is a black liquid that coats the grass from where Jaskier last saw their fight.

Yennefer stops before the pool, and Jaskier pales, thinking the worst as Yennefer leans down. The sorceress takes her thumb and pointer finger and collects some of the liquid on her hands. Jaskier was worried that it was blood, turned black in the moonlight—but it becomes evident that this is not the case.

The liquid itself _is_ black. 

It is also viscous, and doesn’t appear to be any sort of fluid you would see come from a natural body. 

Yennefer doesn’t hesitate, reaching into a bag at her hip and grabbing out what looks like a small vile. She quickly collects the substance, and she corks it once she deems her sample a decent enough size. 

“Seen this before?” Jaskier asks.

“No,” Yennefer admits, “It smells of sulfur, but… There’s something else to it.”

Jaskier is about to ask Yennefer another question, but a sound stops them.

A cough, directly followed by a gurgle.

Yennefer’s head snaps in the direction from which the sound originated, and she immediately begins to head towards it. Jaskier follows, practically at the court mage’s heels, wondering if it was Geralt they were hearing.

However, as the light from Yennefer’s orb illuminates the form they come upon at the end of the clearing, it becomes obvious that something else has occurred.

It’s a man, one Jaskier doesn’t recognize, naked and shaking against the ground from where he’s lying on his side. His body is littered with lacerations, all looking both old or new, bleeding and festering. Clumps of familiar brown fur are plastered to his skin and around him on the grass, and Jaskier scowls as he tries to figure out how this man ended up as he has.

Immediately, Yennefer crouches down at his side, turning the man over gently.

The sight of his face makes Jaskier gag.

Blood seeps from every orifice—the man’s eyes, nose, ears, mouth. The whites of his eyes are also turned red from burst capsules, and he shakes out an agonized breath while his pale gray irises land on the bard and sorceress.

“K-Kill me,” he begs, his voice rasped and pained, _“Please.”_

“Arzirt,” Yennefer murmurs, and Jaskier can hear the pain in her voice.

“You… You know me?” the man asks weakly, surprised.

Yennefer nods, and Jaskier watches as she places a hand along the man’s side. Under her palm, a soft, white light appears, and it’s then that Jaskier realizes Yennefer is attempting to heal the poor man.

“I do know of you,” Yennefer tells him, and there is a gentle tone in her voice that surprises Jaskier somewhat, a sincerity he thinks she doesn’t often show, “You and your wife Mona, you’ve been missing for a month now…”

At the mention of his wife, Arzirt tears up, closing his eyes and looking as though he wants to sob. But his body is too weak, even with Yennefer’s attempts at rectifying it.

“Arzirt?”

“She’s… She’s dead,” Arzirt chokes out, “She’s been dead.”

“Did the beast kill her?”

At the mention of the beast, Arzirt winces, and Jaskier sees pain on his face.

“T-There is no beast…”

The man’s words make Yennefer’s face draw up in confusion, “What do you mean?”

“It was me,” he tells her, and through the fog of pain and misery that clouds him, there is a distinct sharpness about his admission, “I was the beast…”

“You were cursed,” Yennefer murmurs.

“No. I was b-being _used,”_ Arzirt’s teeth grit together, and Jaskier realizes then that there is a growing pool of blood collecting underneath him, “There was no curse… I… I was being p-p-possessed.”

Yennefer presses further, “By what?”

 _“Więcej,”_ Arzirt shakes out, and Jaskier notes how pale he appears, “That’s what it called itself… I… I don’t know what it was. I just know… where it came from.”

Before Yennefer can ask anything else, Arzirt coughs. Red droplets splatter onto the ground below, and Arzirt’s body all but convulses with the spasms.

With a scowl, Yennefer adds her other hand to Arzirt’s side, the light of her magic growing as she puts more work into stabilizing him with her Chaos.

“Where did this Więcej come from?”

“I was in Lyria. Working on old runes, pre-conjunction relics… Mona always warned me something could happen,” a fresh trickle of blood runs down from the corner of Arzirt’s lips, “S-She was right… It was t-there... Waiting. And I let it out.”

Arzirt coughs once more, and Yennefer curses, her nose beginning to bleed with the strain she is exerting with her magic.

“It wanted to taste you,” Arzirt confesses, looking to Jaskier now, his soul evident in his stare, “It came here the moment it caught scent of your fear.”

“M-My fear?”

“Both of yours,” Arzirt strains, and he arches a little off of the ground, “Your friend… The Witcher… It wanted him too… It was so _hungry…_ It hasn’t eaten in so long before now...” 

Yennefer shakes her head, “So is that why you killed the other people? To eat them?”

“It doesn’t like just meat. It… It enjoys something else… Fear. It…” Arzirt shakes now, _“It fed off of them all._ I… I didn’t want to do any of it… But it _made me…_ It made me do so many terrible things…”

A stray tear falls from the corner of Arzirt’s eye, and the man looks to the sky, his mouth moving for a second as his throat tightens. Jaskier can see the struggle in the man as he faintly chokes on the air his dying body attempts to breathe.

“F-Forgive me…”

And with a final rasp, it’s over.

Yennefer lowers her hands, cursing as the light from her magic dies. She stares down at Arzirt’s body, at all of the wounds littering the man’s skin. The rivulet of blood that drips from her nostril runs down her face for a moment more before Yennefer wipes it away in defeat, going to stand beside Jaskier.

The bard lets out a tense breath, and he looks to the sorceress.

“Have you ever heard of a Więcej?”

“No…” Yennefer looks down upon Arzirt’s body with a stark frown, “But I don’t think anyone has.”

Jaskier’s mouth goes dry, and he looks about the clearing while Yennefer stews. The troubadour feels his skin prickle, as though they are being watched.

“So I guess that leaves one question…”

“Which is?”

Jaskier takes a step back, his eyes narrowing on the left side of the clearing, and he swears he can see a movement in the trees.

“If Arzirt was made into a bear by the Więcej,” he begins, his voice lowering, “then where _is_ the Więcej?”

Yennefer frowns, and Jaskier’s heart catches.

“Where is _Geralt?”_

Yennefer turns the direction that the bard is facing, gasping softly as she raises her hands. Jaskier senses her readying her Chaos, and he looks back to the woods, his breath almost catching in his throat.

Red eyes can be seen from the dark, and Jaskier’s own widen as the lurid pair locks onto him. The bard’s skin almost crawls, and Yennefer tilts her head, seeming to sense something that Jaskier doesn’t.

Twigs and leaves crunch under boots as whatever stares approaches, and Jaskier begins to see a silhouette emerge from the treeline.

“G-Geralt?”

A familiar face appears from the trees, and Jaskier’s legs weaken.

The Witcher stands before him, looking almost as Jaskier left him. 

However, his hair is a bit in disarray, with multiple strands from the top having fallen out of place from the small ponytail Geralt had made at the back. His black tunic is also torn, remnants of the bite Arzirt had given him while in the form of the bear the Więcej had him assume. The fabric is also wet with blood, and Jaskier feels his worry get the best of him as he takes a step closer, trying to see if anymore wounds linger on the Witcher’s form.

However, the bard’s advance is stopped shortly after its start by Yennefer, her hand darting out and catching Jaskier, keeping the bard from getting any closer.

 _“Don’t,”_ the sorceress hisses, “That’s not your friend.”

At Yennefer’s warning, Geralt chuckles, and Jaskier looks at the Witcher as an unusual smile graces his lips.

“I can assure you, I am.”

Jaskier frowns, and he notes then that where Arzirt had bitten him appears to be unmarred. Apart from the blood wetting Geralt’s tunic, the unbroken skin becomes evident despite almost being hidden away, especially as Geralt shifts carefully among the shadows.

“Geralt, are you alright?”

“Never better, Jaskier,” Geralt turns his wide grin towards the bard, and something flashes in those eyes— lurid, _wanting,_ “Why? Afraid I might be injured after taking care of that bear?”

“No… Just…” the bard’s brows furrow, “You’re not acting like yourself.”

Geralt laughs now, shaking his head. His canines glint in the moonlight, and Yennefer’s light casts the sharp lines of his face with stark shadows.

“But I’m perfectly fine.”

“You’re the Więcej,” Yennefer speaks, her voice gaining volume as she raises her chin up, “Aren’t you?”

Humming, the Więcej seems displeased. And if anything, almost annoyed that its act is up.

“I’m guessing that shitbag talked to you before he finally died?” the Więcej asks, raising Geralt’s brow, and something dark passes over his expression, “Good riddance. He was a horrible host. But, I suppose we all have to start somewhere.”

Yennefer’s eyes narrow at Geralt’s words, and the air grows thick between them.

“But this… This body… This beloved Witcher of yours…” the Więcej holds out Geralt’s arm, looking at the bulk of his bicep and the muscle there before it flexes, closing Geralt’s hand into a fist that makes his tendons rise against his skin, “Now he is something _worthy.”_

“Stop _—_ ” Jaskier tries to move closer, but doesn’t succeed with Yennefer holding him back, “He’s not your plaything!”

“Oh, is he not now?” the Więcej smirks, the expression foreign on Geralt’s features, “Pretty sure I’m the one in control right now, not him.”

Jaskier’s lips press together, and the Więcej tilts Geralt’s head at him.

“He doesn’t like it, you know. That he has no control. That, despite all his objections, he couldn’t stop me from hurting you,” Geralt’s voice dips an octave lower, a deep gravel that Jaskier hasn’t quite heard before, “He just keeps screaming about how you need to run.”

Defiantly, Jaskier puffs his chest, vowing, “I’m not going anywhere!”

“Jaskier, shut your fucking mouth!” Yennefer yells at him.

The Więcej chuckles, and he begins to pace in front of them. Yennefer quickly turns her attention to the Więcej, and she moves her hands up, her palms lightly humming with her Chaos. It’s a warning, unspoken but still clear.

_Stay back._

For her efforts, the Więcej smirks, shaking Geralt’s head, “You don’t scare me, mage.”

Jaskier can tell the sorceress is unnerved, but she holds her ground, her violet eyes never leaving Geralt’s form.

It’s then that the Więcej lifts Geralt’s chin, the possessed Witcher’s red eyes closing as it takes a deep breath. A low rumble emerges from Geralt’s chest, and the Więcej opens his eyes, looking more hungered than before.

“You’re afraid,” the Więcej narrows its eyes onto Jaskier, and it runs Geralt’s tongue along his lips, “I can smell it so vividly now, through him… And your heartbeat… I can hear it _racing._ ”

A feral hunger appears in the Więcej’s gaze, and Jaskier refuses to shiver because of it.

“Geralt!” Jaskier shouts, trying to ignore the way the Więcej’s stare makes him feel, “Geralt, if you can hear me—”

“He can hear you. He can see what I see, too. Sense everything I’m sensing,” the Więcej makes Geralt grin devilishly, “He just can’t do anything about it.”

Jaskier curses, and the Więcej takes a step closer.

“Do you know how good you both taste to me?” the Więcej taunts, and Yennefer forces Jaskier to take a step back, “You haven’t felt fear in a while because of him. But now, you’re scared. Rightfully scared. And your Witcher? He rarely fears anything… But now, all he feels is absolute terror at what I’m about to do.”

Jaskier blinks, and something in the air shifts.

Geralt’s body cracks, and Jaskier watches in horror as Geralt’s lips spread in a horrific smirk as his face even begins to contort. 

Skin rips,and black liquid like what Yennefer had put into her vial pours out between the splits in Geralt’s flesh. Jaskier gags, feeling his stomach convulse at the way flesh falls away from Geralt’s body, strings of mucus and sinew forming and snapping as Geralt’s form begins to turn into something else entirely.

The Więcej roars, opening Geralt’s mouth until his jaw splits, the bone elongating as Geralt’s teeth fall out onto the ground, replaced with sharp canines that grow from its blackened gums. Silver-white hair sprouts from Geralt’s flesh, covering him as his body rips through his clothes and grows in size. Even Geralt’s medallion can not remain through the change, the chain breaking around the added girth of Geralt’s neck, and it falls to the ground below as Geralt’s changing body stumbles.

The Więcej pants, its red eyes moving to Jaskier as a wave of fear rushes through him at the sight of Geralt’s transformation. It rumbles, looking starved in a crazed sort of way as it finishes its metamorphosis.

The Więcej has turned Geralt into something akin to a werewolf, its lips pulling back into a snarl as it eyes Jaskier hungrily.

Yennefer pushes against the bard, backing them up as she readies herself, a fresh droplet of blood beginning to run from her nose as Jaskier feels a portal open up from behind them.

“Go!”

The Więcej roars, and begins to charge.

Jaskier feels Yennefer shove him into her portal once more, and he is still facing the Więcej as he falls into it.

_“Geralt!”_

The Więcej opens its jaws, going to snap at them both right as it reaches the portal.

Jaskier blinks.

He lands on his back, finding himself looking up at the ceiling of a bedroom as the air is forced out of his lungs.

 _“Oh fuck,”_ he curses, “Where are we?”

“My quarters, back in Vengerberg.”

The bard lays there for a second, head and stomach swimming before he leans up on his elbow, groaning as he sees Yennefer get to her feet beside him.

“What…” he pants, watching as the sorceress moves along the room she had teleported them into, already going to gather her things, “What was that?”

“Something I’ve never seen before,” she answers curtly, and Jaskier goes to stand as she begins to grab a few bags.

“That… thing. The Więcej,” Jaskier stumbles on his feet a little, his vision a little blurry as he goes to rest upon the bed that is apparently at his back, “It’s in Geralt.”

“So it seems.”

“I thought Witchers were immune to things like that.”

“Most things, yes. But apparently not with this,” Yennefer curses, and she looks to Jaskier, “Listen, this entity in him… I can tell it’s different. It registers differently than anything I’ve ever come across.”

Jaskier can’t help the wave of doubt that begins to creep up on him then, “Then what are we going to do?”

“You mean what _I’m_ going to do,” Yennefer corrects.

Scoffing, Jaskier shakes his head, pointing a finger at the sorceress, “No, no! You’re not butting me out of this, you witch! Geralt is my friend, and I’m going to do whatever I can to help him! And besides, you heard that thing! It… _It likes how I taste!”_

The sorceress stops for a second, humming as Jaskier watches her back. She then turns, her violet eyes falling onto him as she looks amused.

“You’re very stubborn,” she notes aloud.

“So I’ve been told,” the bard approaches her then, growing serious, “Just… Whatever I can do… Geralt… Geralt deserves better than being turned into the monster he’s never been.”

“You care about him.”

“Of course I do! Geralt has saved my life a few times, apart from giving it purpose. That isn’t true about anyone else I know.”

Yennefer sighs, and she hands Jaskier a few bags.

“Then make yourself useful, bard.”

Jaskier grabs onto the satchels the sorceress as offered her. Thankfully, it’s not too much, but Jaskier’s arms are slightly full as Yennefer moves her arms, once again summoning a portal that swirls into fruition before them.

“Where are we going?”

“Didn’t you hear Arzirt before he died?” Yennefer motions for Jaskier to walk towards the portal, and the poet complies, “He said that the Więcej came from Lyria.”

“Hm. Don’t think I’ve been there before.”

“Well, hurry up, can’t hold the portal forever.”

“Right…”

Jaskier glances back at the sorceress before stepping through the portal.

Despite this being his third time through one of Yennefer’s magical gateways, the bard feels his stomach shrivel against itself as he gags, coughing as he finds himself in the middle of a small field in the dark of night. Yennefer quickly follows after him, the portal closing behind her as she joins him.

The look on her face is far from happy as Lyria comes into view, the remnants of the once proud city decaying before them. Jaskier almost seems uncertain if Arzirt was accurate in saying he had worked here until he spots a camp in the distance, their torches and fires faint but still visible in the night.

Yennefer’s undertone of apprehension is evident as she begins walking towards the camp, “There’s work going on here. Archaeological, of course, as there were rumors of pre-conjunction relics being present here in the remains of Lyria. I know the man who is running this expedition. He might be able to help us… If he doesn’t tell me to fuck off, that is.”

Jaskier snorts softly, looking over to Yennefer as he matches up at her side, “So you two have a past?”

“That would be the kind way of putting it…” the sorceress murmurs.

“So, if this man you know _does_ tell you to fuck off… What then?”

“Then I have to resort to other measures. But, trust me when I say this… This Więcej… I don’t plan to let it get away because of my lack of acquaintances.”

Jaskier glances at the woman from the corner of his eye, the two of them walking quietly ahead to the camp before them.

“You don’t seem to have many,” the bard comments.

“While the world itself is hell, Aedirn is not a friendly country, particularly to anything other than humans,” Yennefer says with distaste, “And even then, its people can still be cruel to themselves.”

“Then why work as a court mage in Aedirn, then?”

Yennefer snorts, shaking her head, “I was wrong about Aedirn… I… I had more hope in it than I should’ve.”

Jaskier hums, “From what I experienced, it seems like a _lovely_ place.”

The bard’s sarcasm earns a light chuckle from the sorceress.

“But… I can’t help but ask…” looking at Yennefer then, Jaskier scowls, “Why did you disobey the king so openly? Surely there will be consequences for such a thing...”

Yennefer looks ahead almost numbly, unbothered by Jaskier’s worry.

“You learn quickly that even the life of a sorceress, after crafted into not only something of beauty, but into something of power... it’s quite dull. Especially that of a court mage… Almost three decades I’ve wasted cleaning up all sorts of political messes. Wiping asses the whole way… There is no self-appeasement in such boring servitude.”

“So this is you breaking free?”

“I’m more powerful than what they deserve. Kings, queens… Nobility equates to narcissism. Arrogance. These people believe for the name they carry and the lineage they have in their blood, it makes them gods of some sort. Immune to consequence or downfall,” Yennefer clicks her tongue, “I’ve outlived kingdoms. I’ve seen them fall… And with Vengerberg, I could easily kill King Virfuril in his sleep, if I wanted. End it right then and there. What good would it all of his pride do him then?”

Swallowing thickly, Jaskier nods, “R-Right.”

His slight discomfort has Yennefer glancing towards him, and Jaskier can see she is entertained by his reaction.

“Rest assured, I’m not out for blood,” a slight drop in her smirk follows her attempt at soothing him, “But that’s also not why I’m doing this.”

“Oh,” Jaskier blinks, his brows furrowing, “It’s not?”

“No… As I mentioned, attacks on Vengerberg and its people have been a problem for long enough. Too many innocent people have died. And now, a Witcher is the new host to this entity I’ve never heard of or seen before,” she quiets, her eyes narrowing, “I don’t like the implications.”

Thinking of Geralt, of how the poor bastard must be feeling right now, Jaskier feels a distinct drop in his gut.

“Me either.”

As they near the camp, Yennefer takes a deep breath, looking as though she is schooling herself together as best as she can.

“Then let us hope we can get the answers we came for.”

Together, they reach the edge of the camp, and despite the late hour, Jaskier can hear people chipping away at stones and working through the dark of night. Some of them stop as they take in the sight of the bard and the sorceress, but Yennefer walks on, not even acknowledging their stares.

Jaskier nervously keeps up at her side, noticing how Yennefer is walking towards a singular tent in particular. There’s a fire in her gaze, her violet irises almost aflame with her determination as she marches her way towards the tent.

The front of it is pulled back, revealing the inside. It is lit up by a ball of light, similar to the one Yennefer had conjured up in the clearing. A man resides at a table, overlooking a paper of sorts. His face is pinched in scrutiny, and one of his hands runs through the decent beginnings of his ebony beard along his jaw as he concentrates.

However, his focus is broken as Yennefer comes closer, clearing her throat as she stops right outside of this man’s tent. Jaskier stands beside her awkwardly, glancing between the sorceress and the apparent sorcerer, their unease as cloying as it is instant the moment the man sets his eyes upon Yennefer.

Pale, blue irises stare, their gaze as icy as it is disbelieving. The man even stumbles back a little, obviously surprised at the woman who has just presented herself before him.

 _“Yennefer,”_ his deep voice is toned with shock, “What are you—”

“Before you believe I’m here for anything else, I need to preface my request, Istredd,” Yennefer shifts, her face carefully held in a neutral manner as she regards the man before her, “A man named Arzirt… Did he help you with your work?”

Istredd seems taken aback by the question, and he blinks, thinking over Yennefer’s question. After a moment, he nods, his eyes narrowing suspiciously on the sorceress.

“Yes… He worked with me for a few weeks, but he returned to Vengerburg a little over a month ago. Got spooked, said he couldn’t continue this research,” Istredd frowns, “Why?”

“I believe that something went on here before Arzirt left. Maybe a relic of sorts that you discovered contained something we haven’t come to know yet,” Yennefer pauses, biting her lip and looking as though she is tasting the bitterness of her pride as she swallows, “I… I need your help, Istredd.”

At that, Istredd chuckles. But the sound isn’t kind. If anything, it is scathing, wounded. The sorcerer looks upon Yennefer with his chest puffing, and he looks defensive as he eyes her heatedly.

“The great Yennefer of Vengerberg, finally asking for help? Let alone from me?” Istredd’s tongue runs angrily over his teeth, “And after all my requests to work in Vengerberg were denied…”

“This isn’t about _us,_ Istredd,” Yennefer takes a few steps closer to the sorcerer, and while there is offense in her tone, there is also a plea to it, “I did not come here to mock you or throw the past in your face, as much as that may come to surprise you,” she stops almost right in front of Istredd, and her voice is barely above a whisper, “Something got out. Something that came from your work here, in Lyria. And I’m not sure how to stop it.”

Istredd stares at her, looking unconvinced.

“My friend needs your help.”

Istredd looks up at the sound of Jaskier’s voice, and he eyes the bard coldly.

Jaskier takes a few steps forward, hoping he doesn’t appear too sheepish as he does so.

“Your worker, Arzirt… He was possessed by something. Something that calls itself a Więcej… And now, Arzirt is dead, and the Więcej has possessed my friend…”

At Jaskier’s words, the sorcerer’s eyes narrow, “A Więcej?”

“Yes. At least, that’s what Arzirt claimed it called itself.”

Istredd backs away from Yennefer then, going back over to the table he had been working on. There is a box on the table, black and nothing to unassuming. As he goes over to it, both Yennefer and Jaskier go into the tent.

As Jaskier gets closer, he can see markings all over the box. Old runes he cannot make out, but still give a foreboding sense of dread nonetheless.

“Arzirt found this relic and opened it right before he said he had to leave,” Istredd explains, “I’ve been studying it in the meantime, trying to figure out what it was… I think… I think this might be tied to what you’re talking about… It mentions a name like Więcej… But my translations have given me a name in our language.”

“Which is?”

“Monger,” Istredd replies.

“Monger?” Jaskier frowns, “That’s nothing I’ve ever heard of…”

“That’s because there’s nothing known by the name,” Yennefer fires back, and Jaskier can see her internal tension rise, “It just confirms what I was thinking…”

Istredd tilts his head at the woman, “Which is?”

“This entity, the Monger, it’s pre-conjunction,” she reaches into her satchel, grabbing out the vial she had used earlier and places it onto the table, “That’s why it’s so different from and unlike everything else. It predates it all…”

Moving her attention to the other part of the table, Yennefer studies the box, and she reaches for it. Her fingertips barely graze its lid before they yank back, and she looks to Istredd with worry.

“Dimeritium?” the sorceress breathes out.

“I’m sorry, what?” Jaskier looks between the two mages, confused.

“Dimeritium. It’s a metal that reacts to magical creatures or beings with magical abilities,” Istredd explains, “It seems as though the Monger was contained in a box made of it.”

Curiously, Yennefer grabs the vial of the black liquid she had collected, and she brings it close to the dimeritium box. Inside the vial, the liquid reacts violently, almost bubbling and even looking as though it were trying to slither away from the metal within its glass confines.

“Hm… So it’s immune to silver, but not this,” Yennefer comments, and she pulls the vile away, frowning, “It’s rather unusual.”

Istredd sighs, looking at the sorceress, “So far, from what you told me, all of this is…”

“I’ve never heard of anything like it,” Yennefer starts, “From what Arzirt told me, the Monger, it feeds off of others, and has a particular taste for fear... It takes upon a host, and it uses their bodies until they seemingly break down from the inside out…”

With his throat constricting some, Jaskier asks, “Do you think that Geralt will be okay, then?”

“Geralt?” Istredd asks, his attention moving to the bard, “Like _Geralt of Rivia?_ The Witcher?”

“Yes. The one and only…” Jaskier affirms.

“I know of you then! You must be his bard companion. Jaskier, sometimes known as Dandelion! Why, I’ve had _Toss a Coin to Your Witcher_ stuck in my head so many times since you’ve written it!”

The sorcerer laughs, and there is a slight twinkle in his eye. That is, until it dies, and a dismaying realization sets upon Istredd.

“But… You mentioned that the Więcej possessed your friend…” Istredd’s pale eyes widen, “The Monger… It has your Witcher.”

Jaskier’s face crumples a bit at Istredd’s words, the bard shuffling awkwardly on his feet.

“Then you must understand our urgency,” butting into the conversation once more, Yennefer lays her hands onto the table, looking as though she is almost plotting for a war, “From what I’ve seen with this Monger, it takes upon a host and uses them until their bodies are spent. When we confronted it earlier, it commented on how Geralt was different. So I imagine that, with a Witcher’s abilities and mutations, the Monger will be far more powerful and harder to deal with than if it took upon a regular human’s body.”

Still worried, Jaskier speaks up once more, “If Arzirt only lasted a month as a host, how long do you think Geralt would last?”

Yennefer’s attention moves to the troubadour, his question lingering in the air harshly like smoke, and her brow furrows. A bit of pity emerges in her expression, and Jaskier hates its appearance. The bard eyes her seriously, and he feels sick at the implications of her answer.

“I’d imagine longer than a human, but I couldn’t be sure for how much longer that could be,” Yennefer admits, “He’s a Witcher. His body was specifically mutated to be stronger. Resilient. Immune. And from what I have heard about Geralt, he underwent more than other Witchers during the Trial of Grasses. I would say there is more in our favor for Geralt faring well or better than Arzirt, despite his possession… But, the fact that this Monger was able to possess him at all is what worries me most.”

Jaskier curses, shaking his head, “Then what in the hell are we supposed to do?”

Looking to Istredd, Yennefer garners a look of determination as she questions the other mage, “Apart from a name, have you learned anything else about this Monger?”

“A little… The box is vague. Mostly it is covered in runes about containment. Others are more obvious and practical— like warnings not to open the box,” Yennefer almost looks disappointed with Istredd’s answer until the other mage adds, “But, there were other relics placed with it, ones that let me know the name of this entity... I’ve managed to translate some of what is on it. It’s coded in some way, so it’s taken me longer than usual to decipher it.”

“Hm, then we shouldn’t waste much longer if the answers we need will take some time to learn… I suppose in the meantime I could ask your men here what happened whenever this box was discovered during your studies. Maybe we can learn a little bit more about this Monger than what even your relics can offer.”

“Sure. I can take you to them.”

As the two mages look set upon this sudden plan of theirs, Jaskier angrily clears his throat. Yennefer and Istredd stall, and they look upon the angry bard that places his hands onto his hips, huffing at the both of them.

“And what am _I_ supposed to do?”

“I don’t know. Maybe sing us some songs or something?” Istredd suggests, but there is no mocking in the suggestion, but it is obvious that Istredd is at a loss then.

“I don’t want to sing songs! I want to help Geralt!”

Sighing, Yennefer hands Jaskier the vial of black liquid, and she points to the dimeritium box on the table. 

“Since you can work with the dimeritium without issue, I want to know more with how this liquid reacts to it. I can already tell it has an aversion to the metal— but, I want to be certain that if we have any chance at recapturing this Monger, we can safely return it from whence it came.”

Jaskier makes a disgusted face, but he takes the vial from Yennefer nonetheless.

“Ah, yes. Monster goo. How… lovely.”

“Well, you wanted something to do,” Yennefer shrugs, nonplussed as she brushes past Jaskier, and Istredd joins her at her side while they leave his tent, “Now, what men were working with Arzirt when the box was discovered?”

The two mages leave Jaskier in the tent, and the troubadour glances down to the vial of black liquid in his hand.

Sighing, Jaskier goes over to the table, finding a stool available at one end and sitting down onto it. The bard stares at the vial, playing around with it and twirling it slowly about his calloused fingers. 

The black liquid inside moves, viscous and almost like honey, as Jaskier flips the vial about. 

Thoughts also flip about his skull, his mind wandering to Geralt now that he has been left alone.

He thinks of what he saw in the clearing, of how the Monger was wearing Geralt’s skin so easily. The Witcher, who Jaskier has come to trust with his life in the past five years he’s come to wander after the monster slayer, left at the mercy of an entity who stripped him of his infallible control.

How must Geralt be feeling right now?

He was conscious within his body for all of this, Jaskier knows, and the thought is petrifying. To still have the faculty of your senses, but to have no ability to stop what is happening before you. To have your body stolen and hijacked, and forced to do and become things you do not ever wish for.

The image of Geralt transforming sends a dark twist through Jaskier’s gut. The sounds of Geralt’s flesh and bone snapping and reforming so agonizingly…

Jaskier was told Witcher’s felt no pain. But he is sure that even a Witcher would be humbled by such a sensation. 

And humbled further still by the way the Monger destroys the body of its host, slowly but surely. 

Fear clings to Jaskier then, like thousands of hands from unseen places gripping and grabbing at him, making his skin feel tight as his heart pangs against his ribs.

He’s never quite had to fear for Geralt. The man was persistent as he was resilient. Geralt bounded back from things Jaskier never quite expected him to survive.

In the past few months, fear felt antiquated. Unnecessary.

But now, fear is all Jaskier can feel when it comes to the Witcher.

A shaky breath escapes the bard, and his hand shakes a little at the implications of all of this.

What would the Monger make Geralt do? What would it do to Geralt’s body, his mind? 

What if they couldn’t get the Monger out of Geralt in time? What if they couldn’t get the Monger out at all?

Would… Would Geralt… _die?_

Jaskier’s breath and heart are loud in his ears. Almost deafening, but not enough for the bard to miss and distinct clinking noise.

Looking up from where he was staring at the table absently, the bard is freed from his trapping thoughts, and he is able to notice what is taking place in the palm of his hand.

A slight vibration comes from the vial in his hands, and Jaskier blurrily stares at the liquid contained within it. 

Similar to when Yennefer had placed the vile near the box, the liquid is reacting, pulling and moving in a way that speaks of disturbing sentience. Except, unlike before, the liquid is not shying away from something. No, it is desperately trying to slither towards Jaskier.

The bard hiccups, his pale eyes locked onto the liquid as it coils up near the cork, and Jaskier can see the ripples within it, at the way it peaks and longs to get close.

He almost drops the vile out of reflex, but carefully catches himself last second. But he cannot lie and say he isn’t disturbed as he sets the vile down onto the table, and stands from his seat.

The vial sits upright, at least, for the first few seconds that Jaskier watches it. But the liquid inside is as stubborn as it is clever, it seems, using its weight as it collects at the top to knock the vial onto its side. It’s not a heavy enough fall to break the glass, but Jaskier’s breath still catches as he finds his muscles locking up at what the liquid does next.

Shimmering and pitch like oil, the liquid continues its desperation, sliding up the side of the vile and using its weight to add momentum to itself. The vile rolls, slowly at first, but quickly gathering some speed as the liquid gets faster and faster with its movements. 

It reminds Jaskier of the ocean, along the west coast. A toiling, deep body of sea. Callous as it is dark and cold, rolling in the heights of a storm.

The glass sounds like a marble rolling across the floor as the liquid rolls towards him, closer and closer as Jaskier watches.

It’s near the edge of the table, so close to reaching the edge and shattering—

A hand reaches out, catching the vial right as it goes over the edge.

As Jaskier realizes what almost occurred, he feels like a puppet with its strings finally cut, and the bard lets out a pensive breath.

“You need to be careful,” standing from where he had crouched a little to make his catch, Istredd rights himself, eyeing Jaskier worriedly, “If that had broken, who knows what could’ve happened.”

“R-Right. Sorry,” Jaskier brings up a hand, wiping at his face.

As Jaskier calms a little, so does the liquid in the vile. It grows sluggish, disinterested as Jaskier’s breathing and heartbeat level. Istredd still looks distrustful of it, and so, he quickly takes the vial and places it into a small pouch. He ties it to his waist, only satisfied once three knots secure it to his hip.

Istredd hums, glancing to the bard, “You alright?”

“It… It knows,” Jaskier murmurs, “It always knows when you’re afraid.”

Istredd’s lips press together, and the sorcerer looks at Jaskier with something akin to pity.

“You’re worried about your Witcher, aren’t you?”

“Hard not to be,” flush colors the bard’s cheeks as he looks away from the other man, “It’s not every day he gets taken over by something that can easily kill him, or turn him into the monster he’s never wanted to be.”

Humming, the sorcerer nods, “Yennefer mentioned that the Monger can change their forms. Turn them into something else.”

“Yes… Arzirt was transformed into a massive bear. By Melitele, I don’t know why, but… The Monger turned Geralt into something like a werewolf… Which is damingly ironic, considering his nickname as the White Wolf of Rivia.”

At the bard’s words, the sorcerer’s brow furrows, “It… It almost seems like the Monger is mocking its host.”

Jaskier scowls, “What do you mean by that?”

“You said Arzirt was turned into a bear?” 

Nodding, Jaskier crosses his arms over his chest, “Yes. A massive, terrifying bear.”

“Well, Arzirt had a bit of an expedition I plotted in the woods before. The men kept joking about a bear being in the woods. Arzirt didn’t find it as funny, especially when they made him think one was around to scare him… I had to convince Arzirt to stay... He was rather upset.”

“So Arzirt was afraid of bears,” cursing, Jaskier rubs at his strained eyes, “But Geralt isn’t afraid of wolves… If anything, he gets annoyed by them.”

Snorting lightly, Istredd raises his brow, “I imagine, as a Witcher, there isn’t much that does scare him.”

“Well something does,” Jaskier sighs, feeling his fatigue begin to plague him, “I just don’t know what…”

“You’ve run with him the longest. You probably know him better than anyone ever has,” Istredd murmurs, “If anyone were to figure out what Geralt is afraid of, it’s you.”

Jaskier frowns, and bit bottom lip trembles slightly, his eyes stinging, “I just don’t want to fail him… I… I’m usually not the one who does the saving.”

Istredd is not mocking as he comes close, setting a hand onto the bard’s shoulder.

“You’re too harsh on yourself, Jaskier… I think, for right now, you need to try and get some rest. I can tell you’re exhausted,” Istredd smiles a little at the bard, “Let yourself have tonight. Worry come morning, when you can handle it.”

Hanging his head, Jaskier nods numbly.

“Come on,” Istredd uses a gentle hand to guide Jaskier out of the tent, “I have a place you can use for the night…”

“Thank you,” Jaskier murmurs as they start walking, and he rubs at his face, feeling the weight of his exhaustion drag at his eyelids like weights, “I… I didn’t realize how tired I was.”

“After what happened tonight, I could only imagine what you’ve been through,” Istredd hums.

Jaskier doesn’t say anything, muted by his mood and his fatigue as Istredd takes him to a small tent.

There’s a cot inside, with a chest across from it and a rug that lines the ground below. Jaskier makes a grateful noise, peeling his lute from his person and setting it onto the ground by the cot like an afterthought.

Istredd chuckles at the way Jaskier crawls gratefully onto the cot.

“Sleep well, bard.”

Jaskier doesn’t respond, as he is out the second he lays down, too tired to even dream.

xxxxx

_“Why did you lie?”_

Jaskier blinks, his fingers stalling from where he was tuning his lute. He feels Geralt’s venomous glare before he meets it, the Witcher’s amber gaze heated and displeased as it lingers on the bard.

To others, this would be terrifying. Upset like this from a Witcher, to them, meant they would soon find their gut stuffed with one of his swords for causing him inconvenience. 

But for Jaskier, who has traveled long enough with the man to expect differently, Geralt’s fits are mostly comical.

Especially from his spot in the bath, with only his shirtless chest visible from the line of the gray water below. He is soaked, like a cat left out in the rain, except that he is sodden with the bath water mixed with selkimore guts. 

The Witcher almost looked as though he tumbled through mud before he got into the bath, and despite rinsing off a few times, there is still some leftovers clinging to his formerly silver hair.

He’s obviously put out about something though, and Jaskier can tell his time spent in a selkimore’s stomach before slicing his way out was not entirely the cause for his pissy mood.

Confused, Jaskier asks, “What do you mean lie?”

“With your song. _Toss a Coin,”_ and accusingly, Geralt growls, “What you wrote didn’t happen. And yet you still openly sing it to these people as though it did.”

Blinking, Jaskier’s lips part, and he begins to realize what the Witcher is getting at.

“You’re still angry with me,” the troubadour notes, and he scoffs with disbelief, “Even after two years having passed since I’ve written it?”

A pinch emerges along Geralt’s brow, and he moves his thick forearms to brace the edge of the tub.

“You told me respect doesn’t make history,” leaning forward, Geralt hisses at the hard with offense, “But it seems all it makes is coin.”

Jaskier frowns, and he decides to set his lute aside onto a nearby table. 

Geralt watches him all the while, his nostrils flaring— that ire never leaving him.

A few gashes from the selkimore bleed sluggishly down Geralt’s chest, but the Witcher pays them no mind. Even as Jaskier comes to the tub’s side, grabbing a damp cloth and begins to clean at the lengths of Geralt’s split flesh.

Geralt doesn’t flinch or wince from pain, but his face still remains pinched with his upset.

“Coin is a necessary evil of all professions. Even for you,” Jaskier starts, his voice low as he cleans the nasty separation of skin along the curve of Geralt’s collarbone, “After all, it’s why you went after this selkiemore, isn’t it? The gold?”

“It was killing people.”

“And you still took the reward that was offered for your selfless deed. You did a good thing, yes. Properly slayed that monster and saved countless more people from dying. And now that it’s done, you have a place to stay for the night. Food and ale in your belly. A wash to clean you up. All paid for from your fulfilled contract. Why? Because even _you_ know that you need coin to survive.”

Geralt’s lips purse, and his voice vibrates within the small space between them, “Is that all this is then? A way to survive for you?”

Jaskier smiles somberly, and he rinses the rag in the bathwater below, trying to ignore how pink it turns the water.

“Geralt, you should know better than that by now.”

Breathing roughly through his nose, the Witcher remains unsatisfied, “Answer me, bard.”

Sighing, Jaskier meets Geralt’s eyes with his own. Pale blue and amber clash against one another, and Jaskier takes a deep breath.

“I chose to follow you for two years after Posada not to write songs for my own benefit,” Jaskier’s voice drops an octave, “I did it so I could write them for yours, remember?”

Geralt hums, his eyes narrowingly lightly.

“I may have embellished what happened with Torque and Filavandrel to an extent. Because it’s true that respect doesn’t make history. Respect doesn’t make jack or shit. Not in this world,” with a frown, the bard moves to clean another of the Witcher’s wounds, “If that were the case, you wouldn’t be feared for doing what they made you for.”

A hand emerges from the water, and Jaskier finds fingers gripping around his wrist.

Geralt’s grip is not tight, nor is it demanding. He simply holds onto Jaskier, stopping the bard from where he is cleaning his wounds.

It makes Jaskier’s mouth go dry, and he licks at his lips, knowing the strength that the man possesses. The Witcher could easily use it against him right now, but Geralt pointedly _doesn’t._

He never does. Even when he knocks Jaskier out of annoyance, or has to manhandle him out of danger— be it from a monster or of the bard’s own design. 

Geralt has always been frighteningly _tender_ with the bard, and Jaskier has never learned how to process that for what it is.

“They _should_ fear me,” Geralt seethes, and behind his anger, there is a pain in the Witcher’s eyes that makes the bard’s heart sink, “I’m a monster. A mutant. A _beast.”_

“No you’re not,” Jaskier’s voice and stance do not waiver, and Geralt face scrunches as Jaskier continues, “If you were, you wouldn’t save anyone. You wouldn’t bother. In fact, you’d join the monsters in their killings. You wouldn’t feel regret as I know you do. Talking about Blaviken is enough to show that.”

Geralt chuckles menacingly, and his grip on Jaskier’s wrist tightens just a fraction. 

The added tension is still not enough to hurt or even turn Jaskier’s skin red— a testament to Geralt’s iron sense of control, even when he is this upset.

Jaskier has never had to fear the possibility of Geralt hurting him, or even letting him get hurt. 

If only Jaskier could offer him the same kindness.

If only Geralt would _let him._

“Don’t you remember? _Witchers don’t feel anything.”_

Jaskier frowns softly, and he eyes Geralt with an intimate sense of understanding.

“I think you feel too much.”

At his words, Geralt blinks, and his anger falls away to his confusion before he stones himself once more. 

He lets go of Jaskier’s wrist, looking burned.

“I think you’re wrong,” Geralt counters.

“Then think what you will, Witcher, as long as you remember which one of us is right,” Jaskier murmurs, and he drops the cloth into the water.

For a second, Geralt looks after Jaskier, his eyes widening as the bard stands and steps away from the Witcher. 

Geralt looks worried, as though he’s scorned the bard away for all of the anger that he holds within himself. It’s an unusual expression, as Geralt often seems to long for his beloved solitude in light of the bard’s company.

Geralt should know better though. 

Jaskier isn’t going anywhere.

All of the tension that was held in his form loosens as Jaskier does not reach for the handle to the door, but to the bath oils left out on the table beside it. Now reassured, Geralt’s wall makes its scheduled reappearance as he forces himself to look away, his back turned towards the troubadour. 

As the Witcher gains his usual air of indifference, Jaskier snorts softly, smirking at the familiarity of Geralt’s habitual bristling.

Saying nothing, Jasking opts to choose an oil from the offered selection. He takes a moment until he feels satisfied, his fingers circling around one oil that smells faintly of lavender and thyme before turning back around. 

He is behind the Witcher, and Geralt looks ahead to the wall across from them, not even bothering to look at Jaskier as he stops behind him then.

“Close your eyes,” the bard whispers.

He knows that Geralt has done what he has asked, and Jaskier proceeds to uncork the oil. He pours it onto Geralt’s head, allowing all of it to permeate his hair until the vial is empty.

The bard sets the empty glass over to the side, only to take his hands afterward and slide his fingers into Geralt’s hair.

Despite the mess that lingers throughout it, the oil does a good job at covering the rotten stench that the selkimore guts carry. It also lathers up nicely, and Jaskier works his calloused fingers in circular motions, slowly and steadily as Geralt slowly relaxes.

And then, Jaskier begins to sing. Not loud or brash as he was in the tavern earlier, but softer. Quieter. A personal performance, just for Geralt. A private song that he has been working on since he had written his first ballad for the Witcher.

_“Call of the white wolf is loudest at the dawn. The call of a stone heart is broken and alone...”_

Jaskier can feel Geralt react from underneath him, but the Witcher does not stop the bard from singing or tending to him.

_“Born of Kaer Morhen. Born of no love. Song of the White Wolf, is cold as driven snow.”_

The bard pulls Geralt’s head backward, the Witcher permitting the movement until Jaskier is above him, singing his bittersweet tune.

_“Bear not your eyes upon him, least steel or silver draw. Lay not your breast against him...”_

Jaskier’s fingers move from the Witcher’s hair to his face, his fingertips ghosting over Geralt’s skin until they reach his mouth. The bard smoothes the oils over Geralt’s flesh, wiping away at the grime that clings to them, reveling in how soft Geralt’s mouth is. 

_“Or lips to ease his roar…”_

At Jaskier’s gentle touch, Geralt’s eyes open, and those amber eyes look at him, half-lidded, undemanding. The length of his throat flexes beautifully as he swallows, and Jaskier forces his voice to remain even while he sings, holding Geralt’s gaze.

 _“For the song of the White Wolf, will always be sung alone,”_ Jaskier allows his volume to soften, his notes lengthening as he feels his lungs tighten, _“For the song of the White Wolf, will always be sung alone…”_

Geralt’s brow furrows softly as Jaskier pulls back, his hands leaving Geralt’s skin like a phantom disappearing from his senses, and the bard’s lips part as Geralt stares.

“You’ve never sung that one before,” Geralt whispers, “It’s… different.”

And it's odd, to hear his graveled voice sound so… _quiet._ So timid.

“I… It’s still a work in progress,” Jaskier lies, but what Geralt doesn’t know won’t hurt him, “No need to share what isn’t finished.”

Geralt hums, his gaze narrowing, “Then why share it with me?”

“Respect doesn’t make history,” the bard flushes, his heart racing a little in his chest, “But it does make a damn fine ballad.”

At that, he earns one of Geralt’s rare smirks. True and warm it is, and it makes Jaskier feel as though he’s swallowed countless butterflies.

“So you respect me, is that it?” the Witcher murmurs, humored as he eyes Jaskier.

_Respect isn’t enough. Respect isn’t this._

_Then what is this?_

“Don’t go puffing your chest over this,” the defensiveness in his tone isn’t lost even on Jaskier, and the bard winces as he pulls away, his knees somewhat sore from where they had been pressed against the wooden floor for so long, “Pride isn’t your color.”

“And embarrassment is rarely yours,” Geralt notes but there is no mocking in his tone, only curiosity.

The Witcher sits up, turning towards the troubadour, uncaring for the oil in his hair or on his face as he eyes Jaskier.

Jaskier refuses to face the Witcher, instead, going back over to his lute, grabbing it like a lifeline so that his hands may not wander where they had gone before.

“Jaskier.”

For a second, near silence passes. The only sounds to be heard is the celebration from the tavern below, and the sounds of droplets falling from Geralt’s hair.

Still, the bard stiffens at the unspoken demand in Geralt’s call, and he steels himself, looking to the ceiling and sending a brief plea to Melitele before turning back around. 

He finds Geralt watching him from his perch in the tub, his water-slicked skin shining vibrantly in the candlelight of the room. The gashes from the selkiemore don’t bleed as they used to, and Jaskier lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

His wolf medallion still rests between his collar, glinting in the candlelight as it rests against Geralt’s chest. Even for a bath, the Witcher refuses to remove it.

Jaskier doesn’t understand. Doesn’t fathom how Geralt could cling so heavily onto the identity that he loathes so much.

“Thank you,” Geralt says then, and his gratitude makes Jaskier feel as though the room were ablaze, “For the song… For your… For your faith in me.”

“For me, there’s rarely things to find faith in these days,” Jaskier whispers, and he swallows thickly, looking away from Geralt as he grabs onto his lute, “If you could excuse me…”

He doesn’t flee. That’s not what his pride will allow him to call what he does then, walking briskly out of the room with his heart working its way up his throat. He does not run from Geralt, from the sensation that twirls in his stomach like a dancer moving to pirouette.

No. 

_No._

Jaskier knows better than this. The bard may wear his heart on his sleeve, and always will his whole life, but this was different. _He_ was different.

The troubadour scurries to their room like a cat sulking away, futilely trying to run from something inside of him.

_Don’t you remember?_

That callous voice echoes in Jaskier’s mind damningly as the bard throws himself and his lute onto his bed.

_Witchers don’t feel anything._

Geralt’s words echo in his head, over and over in a loop until his chest is heavy and his eyes are watery with it. 

And yet, Jaskier’s heart still longs despite the lunacy of it all. 

For his desire lingers, just as his skin still smells damningly of lavender and thyme.

xxxxx

“Jaskier, wake up.”

The bard blinks, raising his head haggardly as he groggily tries to piece together what’s going on. He’s lying on his stomach, and he huffs, rolling to sit up and face Yennefer before him.

Sunlight comes in through the tent, and Jaskier stretches a little, yawning before he groans from the slight soreness in his muscles.

“Ugh… How long was I out?”

“Long enough,” Yennefer tells him, and she presents a cup of ale to the bard, “Come on. Istredd and I have some new information that might help us.”

Jaskier rises to his feet, nodding as he takes the cup of ale from the former court mage, “Right… Lead the way.”

Yennefer doesn’t hesitate, lifting the hem of her new dress from above the dirt. It’s a gray number with lilac highlights, and it matches the sorceress perfectly. Then again, Jaskier doubts that she rarely is anything _other_ than perfect.

You know, magic and all that.

Jaskier takes a sip of the ale Yennefer had given him, making a slight face at its bitter taste before swallowing it down. His stomach growls audibly, and Yennefer sighs.

“There’s food, so don’t worry, you won’t starve today.”

“Ah. Good… I… I didn’t get to eat the night before. Unfortunately other pressing matters presented themselves.”

“Is it wrong for me to assume they were in the form of a bear?”

Jaskier huffs, “I wish you were.”

That gets a slight chuckle from the mage, but she motions for Jaskier to keep up as they near Istredd’s tent.

Upon their arrival, Jaskier sees Istredd looking upon his table as he had been the night before. He is intently focused, and as Jaskier comes closer, he sees that Istredd has placed the vial from last night onto the table.

“There’s good news and bad news,” Yennefer begins, not breaking Istredd’s concentration as he studies the way the liquid is moving in the bottle, “I’m not sure what you’d like to hear first.”

“Just start somewhere,” the bard tiredly hums, taking a sip of ale and swallowing bitterly, “I’ll follow.”

Nodding, Yennefer moves past Istredd, going over to where two black, slate tablets are placed onto the table. And older writing is etched onto their faces, and Jaskier’s brow furrows as Yennefer stops in front of them.

“These were found with the box that had formerly contained the Monger,” she explains, “Istredd was able to finish deciphering them last night, and they have given us a lot of information.”

“Like what?”

“The Monger was formerly a Djinn,” Istredd speaks, and he leans up from the vial to regard Jaskier from his side of the table, “It makes sense as to why it has no corporeal form. Why it was contained as it was and is affected by dimeritium and not silver.”

At that, Jaskier blinks, and he can’t help the disbelieving chuckle that escapes him, “I’m sorry, _a Djinn?_ Like— like a _genie?”_

“Yes. But it was corrupted somehow. Turned into something else before the conjunction occurred,” Istredd hums, his eyes looking back to the vile, “It explains the vindictive nature… Djinns take pleasure in the misfortune wishes can bring.”

“But it also explains the magic properties of it. How it can transform its host into something else entirely,” Yennefer adds, “But it seems as though the Monger is still bound to laws similar to that of a Djinn.”

Jaskier eyes the mages with a bafflement, and he smiles uneasily as he glances between them, “Okay, I lied. I don’t follow.”

Sighing, Yennefer levels Jaskier with a humorless frown, “Djinns are usually caught and placed into an item, like a flask or box, until someone finds the item and releases them. But instead of being free, the Djinn is bound to the one that freed it until it grants them three wishes.”

“They do not take pleasure in granting them either… Djinns often play in the gray areas of wishes,” Istredd waves a hand at Jaskier, “Say you wanted to have the best voice of all the bards on the continent. When the Djinn grants the wish, it could break your fingers to where you can’t play. Or your voice could make those who listen to you deaf before you finish your song.”

Jaskier winces, “Okay, no need to use those for the examples…”

“But you understand it, at least,” Jaskier looks to Yennefer, “Djinns are not to be toiled with. They rarely intend to bring good fortune to those that seek the aid of their magic.”

“So if the Monger was a former Djinn, what’s changed?”

“It’s still sadistic, but it has more of a consciousness to it. While Djinns are intelligent, they do not have identities. And they don’t possess the individual they are bound to, either,” Yennefer scowls harshly, “My guess is that the Monger is bound to its host in the way a Djinn is bound to the person who freed it. Except, the only way to be freed of the Monger is once your body is spent rather than making three wishes. It seems death is the only release.”

“But Arzirt, while he was in rough shape, the Monger didn’t kill him whenever it left his body. And when it first made Arzirt attack, it was obvious Arzirt’s body wasn’t fairing well… It looked as though he were already rotting,” Jaskier glances between the mages, “If Arzirt was already in such bad shape, why didn’t the Monger ditch him immediately for Geralt? Why go through the trouble of attacking him? Or hell, why didn’t he possess those other people who were attacked from Vengerberg?”

“We’re not exactly sure. But I feel there is something to that,” Yennefer admits, and her brows furrow, “When I was attempting to keep Arzirt alive, I could _feel_ with my Chaos how disintegrated his body was. I doubt that the Monger could’ve used Arzirt for much longer if Geralt hadn’t become his new host.”

At those words, a harsh look comes upon Jaskier’s face, “You know… If it weren’t for the red eyes and the ripped clothes, I wouldn’t have guessed Geralt was possessed… He didn’t even have wounds on him, despite Arzirt taking a massive bite out of his torso before I left.”

Surprises colors Yennefer’s eyes, and she leans towards Jaskier, “He had been bitten?”

“Yes. Arzirt was so large that Geralt should’ve been covered in puncture wounds from his hip to his shoulder,” Jaskier mutters, “But I didn’t see a single one last night.”

“I’ve heard a lot about your Witcher. But even I know that, for all of his abilities and mutations, he should not heal instantly,” Istredd comments.

“So another mystery,” Yennefer hums.

Glancing to the vile on the table, Jaskier grimaces, “It seems we just keep having them pile up…”

“Despite this, I feel we have a pretty good start on taking on this Monger,” Istredd glances between Yennefer and Jaskier, “Knowing that it is a corrupted Djinn can help us narrow our plan of action.”

“Which is what, exactly?” the bard inquires.

“I imagine we need to try and find Geralt first before we attempt the process of ridding him of the Monger,” Istredd suggests, “From the sound of it, it would be best to not allow it to be running around freely in a Witcher’s skin… But, we also need a place to take him. Somewhere befitting… After all, not many places can contain a Witcher, let alone a possessed one.”

“Agreed,” leaning back from the table, Yennefer runs a hand over her face, “Which means we’re going to have to locate the Więcej and take him to Kaer Morhen.”

“Kaer Morhen…” Jaskier frowns, “That’s where they—”

“Where they used to make Witchers, yes,” Yennefer lets out a haggard breath, “Let’s hope that there is still enough there to help us with our plight. And let us hope that finding the Monger will be just as forgiving.”

Waving a hand, Jaskier smirks, “That should be easy. The Monger stayed in the woods near Vengerberg for a month, right?”

“Yes. But it seems it’s broken its pattern,” Yennefer crosses her arms, and Jaskier’s bravado begins to fall away, “Istredd and I went back to the woods outside of Vengerberg earlier this morning in the hopes of confronting it… This is the bad news…” Jaskier’s throat tightens, “There was no sign of the Monger. No black liquid in the grass, no blood. Even Arzirt’s body was gone.”

Jaskier pales, and he looks to Istredd, “He’s— Geralt is gone?”

“From what we could tell,” the sorceress eyes Jaskier with pity, “I’m sorry, Jaskier… But, we did find this.”

Yennefer reaches into a pocket on the side of her dress, and she removes a familiar looking medallion.

Jaskier’s breath catches, and the sorceress hands Geralt’s medallion over to the bard. He takes it gratefully, staring at the wolf head forged into metal, and he clutches it close to his chest.

“Thank you…”

“That medallion is special,” Yennefer tells him, and it’s then that Jaskier can feel a slight vibration from the metal, “It seems to be enchanted… From what I can tell, it alerts you to magic.”

“Is that why it’s vibrating?”

“Yes… I understand, for Witchers, it’s a very sacred piece. It’s given to them by their respective Witcher school after the Trail of Dreams, once their bodies are mutated and they truly become Witchers. It’s almost like a sense of identity for them. Where they came from, even,” Yennefer quiets some, “It must mean the world to Geralt.”

Jaskier nods, and he pockets the medallion, “It does… In the five years I’ve been with him... He never takes it off…”

“Then the next best place for it is to be with you.”

Trying to placate himself, Jaskier pointedly ignores the vibrating medallion in his pocket.

“But… We’re gonna find Geralt, right?”

“It may have run off, but I imagine that word of a white werewolf will travel quickly. We also know where he started from, so we just need to know where the Monger is traveling to—”

Before Yennefer can finish her sentence, a shrill sound cuts through the air.

There is a bite in the wind, but it does not match the cold shiver that passes over Jaskier’s skin at the sound of a wolf’s howl on the wind.

Yennefer looks outside the tent, and her lips part as Istredd straightens beside her.

“No… It… It couldn’t be,” Istredd laughs with disbelief, “Vengerberg is over a day’s travel away!”

“Maybe not for a Witcher,” Yennefer says under her breath, and there is a horrid stillness in the air as Jaskier moves from the door of the tent and back to where the mages are, “But it apparently isn’t for a Monger.”

Another howl, this time closer, and Jaskier feels his heart pick up in tempo in his chest.

“H-He’s here?”

Yennefer moves, swift and calculating, her eyes fixated on the entryway to the tent, and Jaskier strains to see what she does outside.

“It’s _been_ here,” she realizes, and her hands lift at her side, the awakening of Chaos causing the air to feel different against Jaskier’s skin, “It came through the portal with us.”

 _“But it didn’t,”_ Jaskier’s voice doesn’t sound convincing even to himself, even with the pleading smile he garners as he looks to Istredd, “It would’ve been right there with us in the field! And I don’t know about you, but I would’ve noticed a fucking white werewolf follow us into the portal!”

“It must’ve done something when Istredd and I revisited the clearing this morning. Something we both didn’t sense,” there is an ire in her gaze, an apparent offense at what she growls out next, “It’s been playing with us this entire time.”

Without hesitation, Yennefer runs forward, heading out of the tent and towards the field where she had teleported herself and Jaskier last night. Another howl cuts through the air, and Jaskier feels adrenaline course through his veins.

The sound of glass shattering has Jaskier jump, and he lets out a slight shriek. At his side, Istredd curses, and Jaskier realizes, a little too belatedly, what has just occurred.

The vial that contained the black liquid leftover from the Monger is free, having rolled the vial away from the table and towards Jaskier as it had done last night.

The bard yells, jumping back from it as it slithers with speed across the rug below.

 _“Holy fuck!_ Fuck, Istredd! It’s _out!”_ Jaskier has to jump to the right, narrowly dodging the liquid as it lurches for him, and he curses as he hits the table, _“Shit!_ Melitele’s tits!”

Istredd lifts a palm, and Jaskier can see the slight pinch form on his brow. It looks as though he attempts to freeze the liquid, as little ice crystals form along the outside of the liquid. Its movements slow, and Jaskier’s poor heart attempts to settle until he notices something.

The liquid.

It can resist Istredd’s magic.

It _is_ resisting Istredd’s magic.

The crystals forming over its surface begin to break down faster and faster, and liquid gains back its vigor as Jaskier has to jump away from it once more.

“Your magic isn’t working!” the bard shouts.

Istredd curses, and he goes to grab the dimeritium box from where it is at his side of the table.

“No, you fucking idiot!” Jaskier has to dance his attention fleetingly between the mage and the liquid trying desperately to reach him, “Put that down!”

Istredd doesn’t listen, his skin sweating as he coughs, and he comes around the side of the table.

“Istredd! _Drop the box!_ Stop trying to be the damn hero here!”

Before Istredd can reach him, there is a mighty roar that comes from the field, and Jaskier looks outside to where it originates.

The Monger, it’s here. And it currently has Yennefer pinned to the ground, its maw gaping and dripping saliva down onto her face.

And, if the situation were any different and not as life-threatening as it was, Jaskier would laugh. Because, it seems he has lingered around Geralt for too long, and has picked up a nasty habit of his.

_“Fuck.”_

And then, Jaskier feels it.

The human stills, looking down to his left foot, and the black liquid running up his leg and the length of his pants.

“Shit!”

Jaskier tries to shake the liquid from his leg, but it is of no use. Istredd reaches him, looking as though he is about to pass out with how pale and sickly he looks. The sorcerer tries to raise the box to cover the liquid, but it evades the mage easily.

Jaskier doesn’t think, he merely reacts.

Leaning over, he grabs the dimeritium box from Istredd. But, as he does so, the bard doesn’t realize the proximity he has offered.

Like before, the liquid stretches, moving too quickly for either of their reflexes to react. Right as Jaskier grabs onto the box, the liquid snares around his hand.

A frightful gasp escapes the troubadour, and he watches with terrified eyes as the liquid _seeps_ into his skin.

He drops the box, and it falls onto the ground below with a heavy, damning thud.

**_Hello, Jaskier._ **

The foreign voice in his head makes Jaskier stumble back, and Istredd backs away from the bard then, looking upon him with worry.

**_I’ve been waiting for you._ **

“I-Istredd,” Jaskier gasps, and he grabs at the fabric of the tent, “It’s—”

Before Jaskier can finish speaking to him, there is a crash in the tent, and Yennefer appears before them both. Her once pristine dress is covered in dirt and is ripped at the shoulder, and the sorceresses’ hair is wild with pieces of grass and other debris stuck within the raven strands.

To see her so unkempt, it unsettles Jaskier.

**_Tell them to stop fighting me, Jaskier._ **

Yennefer looks to them, and she quickly opens a portal beside them. She doesn’t hesitate, shoving Istredd through it first before grabbing onto Jaskier.

**_Tell them there is no point._ **

Another roar sounds from outside the tent, and Jaskier’s blood turns to ice.

“Go!”

**_You cannot fight fear._ **

She shoves Jaskier through the portal, and quickly follows after him.

**_You cannot evade me forever._ **

Darkness greets them.

Jaskier cannot see.

**_Not when I’m already here._ **

xxxxx

_“Does a Witcher ever retire?”_

From where they walk about the market in town, Geralt glances back to Jaskier, watching as the bard obnoxiously tosses a red apple about in his hands like a court jester.

The troubadour tosses it upward once more; however, it doesn’t get the chance to reunite with his palm. Geralt easily catches it, his gloved fingers wrapping around the fruit before he places it in his satchel, and leaves the annoyed farmer a coin in its place.

“Stop acting like a child, Jaskier.”

“Stop avoiding the question,” the bard rebuttals, and he doesn’t miss how Geralt rolls his eyes and continues walking down the line of stalls here in the town market, his brown hood obscuring his face as he turns away, “I’ve always been curious. I mean, I know that you age differently. Time passes differently for your kind… But I can’t help but wonder… If there’s an end for a Witcher, what is it usually?”

“Death,” Geralt answers back easily, and he stops at a table lined with various breads and other provisions, “Witchers don’t retire. We continue as we do until it kills us.”

Jaskier frowns, and he watches as Geralt grabs a few rolls and places them in his satchel as well.

“Well, surely it’s more than that,” the bard edges, and he can’t help the offense that edges his words, “Not all of your life must be spent hunting monsters and being treated like shit for it.”

Geralt hums, and he places a few coins in the hand of the baker before him.

“Come on. You must want for something,” Jaskier presses as Geralt moves on to another stall, and with some idiotically placed hope, he adds, “Or someone?”

“I want for nothing,” Geralt replies, his monotone reply setting Jaskier’s teeth on edge, “The Path does not allow for us to be selfish.”

Jaskier scoffs, “Wanting something better than this isn’t _selfish.”_

At that, Geralt stops, and he turns, pivoting to look at Jaskier. Even from under the shadow of his hood, the man’s amber eyes are still as apparent as ever.

“You know nothing about the life of a Witcher,” Geralt growls, and Jaskier looks upon Geralt with a hurt expression, “Stop acting as though you do.”

“I think I know enough about _you_ to make up for it,” the human challenges, “I’ve spent every day with you for the past four years. You’re not a stranger to me, Geralt.”

The Witcher comes close, spittle flying from his mouth as he seethes under his breath at Jaskier, “You know _nothing.”_

The venom in Geralt’s words makes the bard scowl harshly. But then, Jaskier’s anger falls away, and he smiles without any warmth, looking upon Geralt with disappointment.

“I know that you will always prefer to be a lonely bastard. It’s easier for you than to ever accept the possibility that, maybe, _just maybe_ — despite all of the attempts you make at staying miserable…” the bard’s lips give an aborted attempt to tick upward in a smile, “You can’t stand how somehow, in light of all you do to stop it, someone still manages to give a shit about you.”

Geralt’s eyes widen just a tad, the rare look of surprise gracing his features as Jaskier pushes past him.

“Forget I said anything,” the bard grumbles, but there is no fight in his words, “I’ll allow you to shop in peace.”

After passing the Witcher, Jaskier quickly works his way through the crowd of people, leaving Geralt amongst them.

He goes to their inn, paying no mind to the patrons he had formerly intended to sway with song to go to their room. Right now, Jaskier is in no mood for singing or mingling with anyone.

He wants to sulk, dammit. To lick his wounds in the privacy of their room without everyone seeing.

The troubadour falls against the door after a moment, trying to level his breathing as he closes his eyes.

_Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._

He knew better than to have been so forward with Geralt, but he couldn’t help himself. He was never strong enough to stop himself from speaking on a whim, from silencing a thought if it grew loud enough. His tongue had a mind and will all its own, and truly, Jaskier was at its mercy as often as he was with what he feels.

The bard had just wondered… Wondered if this is all there would be. 

Walking behind Roach to the next village or city, searching for coin and monsters alike. Singing in taverns or squares about their mighty adventures, the songs spruced up for their enjoyment instead of Jaskier’s. 

Killing. Leaving. 

Rinse and repeat.

Geralt spoke of the Path he walked as a Witcher often. Not with fondness, but a dedication. A vow. 

But was this all there ever was?

Did they never have a home to call their own? A little slice of the world they could call theirs? Could they not do anything they wanted? To sing, to dance, to love... to _live?_

What Path could this possibly be to walk on if it were made of so little? To drive a Witcher’s prolonged existence into something so… so…

_Unfair._

All of it. All of it was unfair.

How boys were sent to Kaer Morhen and forced into the Trails. How their bodies were mutated and their lives were stolen from them. How they were turned and crafted into monster slayers, former humans sworn to protect what they once were. How they are feared and loathed as much as they demanded for their saving graces.

If Geralt had not been sent to Kaer Morhen, if he had not been forced from a young boy into the man that he is now… mutated, scared, _conditioned_ — what could have Geralt become?

Who would Geralt have _let_ himself become?

A singular knock on the door has Jaskier’s eyes open abruptly, and he hears a familiar gravel from behind the wood.

“Jaskier, let me in.”

The bard curses Melitele as he slumps somewhat from defeat. Because while he wanted to brood on his lonesome, he knows better than most that doors do little to stop determined Witchers.

Jaskier steps away from the door, pulling it its handle to reveal the silver-haired man outside. The hood of his dark, fur cloak has been pulled from his head, so it does not obscure the steeled expression on the monster slayer’s face as he enters the room.

Sighing, Jaskier steps back, letting Geralt enter as the bard goes over to the bed, his back facing the Witcher. Geralt shuts the door, and Jaskier hates how thick the air is between them.

Sure, they occasionally bicker. Sometimes they get on each other’s nerves. 

So goes the life on the road.

But this...

This is _heavier_ than that.

Jaskier doesn’t like the weight.

“Did you get all that you needed from the market?”

“I’m not going to forget,” Geralt rumbles.

Jaskier closing his eyes, squinting somewhat out of frustration before he opens them again, glaring at the wall in front of him, “Listen, Geralt. I know that you’re not happy about what I asked earlier. It’s okay, you don’t have to answer me—”

“I was selfish once.”

Jaskier eyes widen somewhat, and he pivots slowly on his heel. The troubadour faces the Witcher then, his brows furrowing.

“Excuse me?”

“I let myself be selfish. Just for one time,” Geralt repeats, but there is no evidence of emotion in the man as he continues, “I quickly learned what that gets you when you’re a Witcher...”

Jaskier’s lips part, and he finds his bitterness giving way to sympathy.

“Geralt, I’m… I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t know,” the Witcher’s voice is softer this time, but Jaskier knows it’s more for _his_ benefit than Geralt’s.

“You don’t have to tell me anything else,” walking to the edge of the bed, Jaskier looks to the floorboards below, lacing his fingers together as guilt tears at his gut, “I overstepped.”

A hum is his answer, and Jaskier can’t help but upturn the corner of his lips at the sound he’s come to know so well.

“I just… I just want you to be happy,” the bard blurts, and he hates the way the words flow unelicited from his mouth, “Sometimes I wonder if you’ll ever let yourself be, or if you’ll just keep going through this misery till you can’t anymore...”

Geralt looks at the bard, and his eyes soften a little.

Jaskier stares back, taking in the Witcher as he is.

Clad in his studded leather armor, always ready for a fight.

For drawing blood.

For bringing an end to something, be it monster or even human. 

The White Wolf— his medallion resting on his chest, rising languidly with Geralt’s breathing. 

Jaskier stares at it, feeling something like acid burn at the back of his throat.

“Are Witchers never meant to be anything other than miserable?” the bard blurts.

Geralt’s brows furrow, and he lowers his chin. 

“Miserable,” he repeats, “Is that what you think this is?”

“I don’t know. Thing is, I can’t tell if being a Witcher made you the way you are, or if you were always meant to be crotchety,” that gets a snort from Geralt, but it doesn’t linger for long as Jaskier adds, “But either way, I can tell that you hate what you are.”

In light of the bard’s words, Geralt’s gloved hands ball into fists, and his leather creaks with the strain while his face sets into a hard scowl. The troubadour lowers his head a little, regretting his choice of words.

“I don’t mean that in a bad way… Well, I’m not sure what other way it could mean, but… I didn’t intend for it to come across as though you’re horrible or—”

“You’re right.”

Blinking, the bard looks at the Witcher, and his brow furrows.

“I’m what?”

“Right,” Geralt hums, and his amber gaze moves to the floor, “If there’s one thing a Witcher could never learn to love, it’s themselves.”

Parting gently, Jaskier’s lips vaguely attempt to form a response. But, for a rare moment, the bard has been rendered speechless.

Sighing, Geralt comes over, and he sits down onto the edge of the bed by Jaskier. 

It’s odd, considering how close they are. Sure, they’ve shared beds before, and occasionally Jaskier got a ride upon Roach if they couldn’t afford him going on foot, but all of those times were out of circumstance. Necessity.

Jaskier has liked to believe that Geralt has grown used to him in some ways. Dare he even say more open. And while the Witcher still holds his distance, still acquires a bard or well-placed hit every once in a while, Jaskier would even chance to call them something close to friends.

Or… Or whatever this is.

Whatever makes the Witcher sit right by him, the bed dipping with his added weight and his leather-clad leg pressing against Jaskier’s own.

Because, even a couple of years ago, Geralt would’ve refused to do this. He barely even talked to Jaskier.

He kept the bard at arm’s length at the closest, and then pretended that Jaskier didn’t exist the rest of the time. Jaskier would sing and talk incessantly behind Geralt, almost as ambient as the chatter of a tavern or the hiss of cicadas in the trees. Geralt had learned to exist _around_ Jaskier instead of with him, and Jaskier understood.

After all, the White Wolf of Rivia was not known for his charm or socialization. Because while he was also a Witcher, born to be cold and walled to everything other than his purpose, Geralt had an affinity for rejection and solitude that rivaled no other. The silver-haired Witcher’s reputation was one of heartbreak and death— and Geralt made no attempts at rectifying it. Even with Jaskier’s vow to do such a thing.

But… It was at times like this, when Geralt comes to sit beside him, their bodies touching and brushing against each other in a way that feels as natural as breathing, it makes Jaskier wonder…

“Her name was Renfri.”

The name, it’s uttered with such pain that it almost takes Jaskier aback. Geralt, however, keeps his face as calm as he can, apart from his usual glare and scowl. But there is a distance in his eyes, a memory that pulls him away from the present, as though it were almost happening all over again.

“She was said to be cursed. Born on an eclipse. One of the women affected by the Black Sun… A sorcerer named Stregobor tried to give me a contract to kill her. But I didn’t,” Geralt frowns, “At first.”

Geralt’s hands on his knees tighten into fists once more, and his frame grows taut with tension. An ire works its way into his eyes, and it’s then that Jaskier realizes something.

Despite all of his mutations... The lifetimes he’s lived...

This wound has never healed for the Witcher.

“She was hurt at first… She was meant to be a princess. But Stregobor kidnapped her alongside countless other girls who had been born on that day. They were tortured, experimented on… All for the lesser evil, as Stregobor claimed,” Geralt’s chest rumbles as he growls, “I’m sure that’s not how they thought of it…”

Jaskier lowers his head, and his gut swims at Geralt’s words.

He regrets allowing himself to be so selfish.

“Renfri… She was meant to be something more. But she resigned herself to her fate. I tried… I tried to get her to see reason. To leave Stregobor and become something different. But she refused, and her men backed her… She threatened to kill innocent people to get to Stregobor. To get her revenge, to become what they always said she was… I couldn’t let her die a monster... So I became one in her stead,” Geralt’s voice dies, and when it returns, it drips with guilt, “She is the reason why they call me the Butcher of Blaviken.”

The bard wipes at his face, cursing, “Geralt… I’m—”

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” Geralt looks to the other side of the room, pointedly _away_ from Jaskier, “You’ll only be wasting your breath.”

Jaskier scowls, but his lips press shut nevertheless. He’s at a loss, especially with the pain that radiates from the Witcher.

_Don’t you remember? Witchers don’t feel anything._

The bard lifts his hand, his pale, blue eyes shifting over to Geralt’s.

_I think you feel too much._

Jaskier sets his hand on top of Geralt’s fist, enclosing the Witcher’s hand with his own in an unspoken vie for comfort. 

The touch surprises Geralt, and Jaskier can feel the way the tension leeches out of Geralt’s fist. Geralt turns his head to the bard, his amber eyes narrowing on the troubadour with confusion.

“You’re more than what they give you credit for,” Jaskier whispers, “Even for what I give you credit for.”

Geralt hums, and his eyes linger on the bard before he looks away once more.

“I think you’ve given me more credit than anyone ever has.”

Quieting, the Witcher moves his free hand to his satchel, and Jaskier eyes his movements curiously until Geralt’s hand reappears. Within it, there is a small, cloth bag, and Geralt proceeds to offer it to Jaskier.

“Take it,” the Witcher insists.

Allowing his palm to slide away from Geralt’s hand, the bard moves to the gift he is apparently being given from the Witcher.

He takes the bag gratefully, carefully— and he pulls at its thin drawstring to peer inside.

“Oh… Geralt… T-Thank you.”

“I can tell your current ones are worn,” the Witcher murmurs, “There was a stall I came across, right after you left… Decided to buy them before they finally went out.”

The bard smiles as he opens the bag, holding out his hand to let the brand new lute strings fall into his palm. The gesture is kind, heartfelt, and Jaskier looks to Geralt with a warm, bubbly smile.

“Thank you! I can’t remember the last time I replaced the strings,” Jaskier snorts, “I’m a horrible bard.”

Geralt hums, “Not quite.”

Flush colors Jaskier’s cheeks, and his eyes meet Geralt’s amber ones.

Did… Did Geralt just _compliment_ him?

“Are you alright, Witcher?” Jaskier narrows his eyes at him, “That ghoul didn’t bite you earlier, did it?”

Chuckling, Geralt shakes his head, “Afraid I would be more sensible if it had.”

Waving a hand, Jaskier tries to hide his blush as he stands, forcing himself away from the Witcher before he does something else tremendously, irreparably _stupid._

As he moves, Jaskier can feel the Witcher’s eyes upon him, almost like hands they are, and he forces himself to remain calm as he grabs his lute, his back thankfully facing the monster slayer.

“I think I owe you one performance for your kindness, Geralt,” Jaskier rushes, and he has to forcibly steady his fingers, “What song would you like to hear?”

Geralt hums from behind him, this time not as a response, but for once, in light of his genuine thought for one.

Ah, such rarities to make themselves known today.

It doesn’t take Jaskier too long to restring his beloved lute, and he strokes the wood fondly before turning to face Geralt, his fingers already tuning the instrument by heart.

“There was a song you sang to me once,” Geralt starts, “That night, after I had killed that selkiemore a year ago… At the time, you claimed it was unfinished.”

Jaskier’s breath catches, but he nods, “Y-Yes… That one.”

“Did you ever finish it?” Geralt asks, and the question is curious, almost… _eager._

“W-Well, I… I would say that… It’s just that… Well...” 

Jaskier sees the way Geralt’s expression falls a little with his verbal dancing, so the bard ends the charade.

“I completed it a while ago…”

The admission has Geralt’s lips parting softly, and Jaskier tries not to remember how they had felt the last time he had sang this damned tune to the Witcher. The memory lingered like the scent of lavender and thyme on his skin, the only way Jaskier couldn’t convince himself that night had been a fever dream of some sort.

“Then play it for me.” 

Geralt’s voice cuts through him, but not with the brashness of one of the Witcher’s swords. No. No, this is something else. Something softer. Something… else.

“Please,” the Witcher murmurs, as if Jaskier didn’t need anymore reason not to drop to his knees and sing until his throat burned and his lungs ached.

_A gilded cage, a cruelty hidden within beauty._

Jaskier forces himself to stare upon his lute, the new strings glinting in the candlelight as he places his hands against the instrument instinctively.

Despite not having played this song with it, his fingers know where to go.

_A lark, forced into silence, containment, for so long._

He strums out the beginning, and his lute vibrates in his hands. His song reverberates into the world, desperate to be heard and known.

_The lock now undone, a gust of wind beneath its wing._

The night after the selkiemore. Lavender and thyme. His heart racing until it feels as though its clawing up his throat to go to where it’s longed to be all these years. To have started humbly in the bard’s chest, but is now no longer his to keep.

Although… Maybe it never was. 

Because that’s the point of love, isn’t it?

To give your heart away?

_Freedom, sought after for so long._

At least, that’s what Jaskier thinks. 

Still.

It would be more befitting if they were deserving of a better definition.

_To finally fly, after all these years of longing._

Jaskier’s voice carries through the room as though it were a dragon soaring through the sky. Strong, demanding attention and respect. It is steadfast, always, where the bard feels as though he would fall through.

Jaskier sings until he reaches the point that he had formerly stopped, and the bard glances up to see Geralt watching him.

His fingers stroke lightly at his strings, mirroring the way they had touched Geralt’s lips that night.

Lavender and thyme.

Amber contrasting blue, like the moon and the sun.

And oh, how they dance around each other just the same.

_“Cast not your eyes upon him, lest he kiss you with his sword…”_

Something about songs… Something about singing to the Witcher before him…

_“Lay not your heart against him—”_

It gives Jaskier the chance to utter what he cannot say.

To give life to something he’s feared to be rejected.

_“Or your lips to ease his roar.”_

Witchers should not feel. 

So is that why Jaskier feels so much?

_“For the song of the White Wolf—”_

Geralt stares while his lark sings.

And Jaskier knows that he will damn all in existence if Geralt, for once, proves what they say about him to be right.

For if the Witcher does not feel anything, then he is destined for nothing more than heartbreak.

_“—we’ll always sing alone.”_

Jaskier finishes his song, playing the ending chords with a solemn and cold pitch, humming with his tune until it fades out like the sun retreating past the horizon.

From his place on the bed, Geralt still stares, his face slack except the slight pinch to his brow.

Jaskier breathes, trying to catch his breath a little after his performance as he looks to Geralt. The bard feels an unusual sense of sheepishness take him, and he lowers his lute, raising his chin at the Witcher.

“What do you think?”

Geralt’s eyes narrow, and Jaskier watches as he stands. The Witcher comes closer, and Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat.

The bard finds himself almost chest to chest with Geralt by the time the Witcher stops. The human’s inhale gets caught in his throat as he looks up, his wide eyes meeting Geralt’s softened ones.

“For once you didn’t lie about me,” the Witcher murmurs, and his head tilts at the bard, “And yet, you never play this song for anyone.”

Flushing, the bard smiles awkwardly, and he rubs at the back of his neck, sheepish and coy, “Ah, well… Most want for a reality different than the truth. Even in song.”

“Then why write it?” Geralt pushes, and Jaskier doesn’t miss the way he inches slightly closer, his back going to press against the wall of the room as the Witcher zeroes in on him, “I thought that was the point of all this. Following me as you do. Writing ballads about the fabled White Wolf of Rivia. Earning prowess as often as you earn coin for yourself.”

Chuckling weakly, Jaskier offers Geralt a faint smile, “Certain songs write themselves, Geralt. You don’t ask for them. You don’t plan for them… They just happen.”

“They just _happen,”_ Geralt echoes, low and heavy.

This close, Jaskier can see the flakes of gold hidden in the amber of his irises. The slight crows feet that have formed at their corners, having taken countless lifetimes to form. Unlike the scar along his eye and the one one his forehead. Ones Jaskier remembers him earning so easily.

“Maybe it’s Destiny… Maybe it’s just me,” Jaskier whispers, and he ducks his chin to his chest as Geralt somewhat towers over him, the bard’s eyes still locked onto the Witcher’s as he glowers, “But I told you back in Posada that I knew my path in life crossed with yours for whatever reason… So yes. They just happen. Just as we happened to cross one another. Must it have an explanation for it to mean something?”

Geralt frowns, growling, “Things just don’t happen without reason.”

“Sure they do,” Jaskier argues, his brow furrowing, “Destiny may craft Her weaving patterns as She may, but even I believe that sometimes even She is surprised.”

“I don’t believe in Destiny,” the Witcher counters, “It’s an excuse that was created to give people comfort, not reason.”

“Thought I already told you, Witcher...” 

As Jaskier breathes, he suddenly realizes just how close Geralt is to him.

So close that the heat of his exhale can be felt on his own skin as it averts with Geralt’s proximity. 

The bard’s eyes dip down to the Witcher’s lips. Curious. _Greedy._

His fingertips have never been able to forget how they felt.

And Jaskier is not above admitting that he questions how his own would feel like against them.

“Does any of this _need_ a reason to mean something?”

Geralt’s chest stills a little, and for a moment — a precious, lingering moment — Jaskier feels whatever this in between them float lazily like the fabled fireflies in the flowered fields of Dol Blathanna.

Jaskier remembers seeing them the first time he had followed after the Witcher. That night, after Geralt had made them a fire, Jaskier had watched them for hours until his eyes stung and he could no longer stay awake.

Geralt had teased him, had told them they were merely bugs that happened to glow. But Jaskier didn’t care.

Because Geralt’s eyes, well, they reminded him of the fireflies. And he had to stop himself from staring.

And it was after that discovery that Jaskier made a compromise within himself. An agreement that his heart had only wandered once more, nomadic as the bard himself.

What he felt… it didn’t mean anything. There was no reason for it to.

The bard was only nineteen then. Young. Naive. _Eager._

Like buttercups blossoming along the edge of the world, desperate to start their life with the arrival of spring.

Geralt…

To Jaskier, the Witcher felt that way too. 

Beautiful. Like spring.

And it feels now that the last of Geralt’s frost is waning. There is a look in his eyes, a slight part in his lips. And Jaskier can hear his heart in his ears, his fingers twitching at his side with the promise of something _more._

But then, Geralt opens his mouth.

“You have too much faith in the word, bard… Let alone in me.”

Jaskier’s stomach plummets, and the Witcher steps back, practically tearing himself away from the troubadour and returning to the bed. 

His armor-clad back faces Jaskier, for which the bard is grateful. It would be hard to explain the tears forming along his lower lash line, at the way his heart feels as though Geralt had wrought his sword to it.

Words escape Jaskier, so he forces his mouth shut from where it was held agape, lowering his chin as he does so. He can hear Geralt grab his swords from where he had set them on a large dresser on the wide of the room, the metallic clanging almost as harsh as Jaskier’s nails digging into his palms.

“I’m off to fulfill my contract,” Geralt says, and the words are impersonal— as though he were talking to a stranger, even, “If I do not return in a few days time, then let them know their griffin has bested the White Wolf.”

Jaskier wants to scream. Wishes for his safety, curses for his ignorance. But the bard remains silent, glued with his back pressed against the wall. He only watches as Geralt opens the door to their room, not even glancing back as the bard begins to tremble as he leaves.

_Don’t you remember?_

Tears fall from Jaskier’s cheeks, as though they were nothing more than rotting petals from dying blooms.

A flower withered.

A love rejected.

_Witchers don’t feel anything._

And it’s then that Jaskier begins to believe that maybe, just maybe… 

After all of his songs — his preaching, his hopes — that out of everyone, he was always the one wrong about the Witcher.

xxxxx

The world is dark and cold, and something hard is at Jaskier’s back.

Stone, it feels like, as he stretches out a palm, trying to feel out the space around him. 

His fingers catch on debris— from dried leaves to piles of dirt and dust, and the bard’s face scrunches as he moves to sit up.

A slight groan sounds in the air, but it did not come from Jaskier. No, it’s from Istredd, who sounds as though he’s a few feet away from Jaskier. The bard isn’t too sure, because apart from the dark, they must be in a cavernous area with the echo that follows Istredd’s moan of pain.

There is a scuffle beside him, and a sudden, blinding light overwhelms his eyes.

It takes a second for them to adjust, but he soon finds Yennefer standing a few feet away from him, and she has now cast one of her illumination spells as she had done the night before. 

Jaskier can see a little of the space they are in, but the look of it is limited despite Yennefer’s influence. Still, Jaskier can tell they are in some sort of abandoned building, made of stone and left to wither it seems. Countless bunks line the walls, the wood old and some even rotten from what seems like _years_ of neglect. The musty air leads Jaskier to cough, and it feels as though he has something in the back of his throat.

As he does so, Yennefer’s magic offers enough light for Jaskier to watch as she rushes over to the other sorcerer, her scuffed and dirtied face drawn up in concern as she leans over her fellow mage.

Istredd seems to be unconscious. Or, at least, too weak to truly register or react to the world around him. He lies in a sad heap upon the floor, his face scrunched in pain, and his palms blistered and red.

“What happened?” Yennefer’s voice is cold and demanding, and she spreads her hands over Istredd, her palms glowing as she uses her Chaos on the sorcerer.

“T-The box for the Więcej,” Jaskier stutters, and he moves to stand, “He kept holding it… Was trying to capture that goop.”

At the bard’s words, Yennefer sharply turns her head towards him, “You mean the liquid from the Monger I’d collected?”

“Yes,” Jaskier rubs at the back of his head from where it stings from his landing, “I kept telling him to drop the damn thing but he wouldn’t.”

Yennefer shakes her head, looking to Istredd with a look of concern, “Shouldn’t surprise me he’s still so stubborn…” the sorceress sighs, and her palms darken as she ceases her use of her Chaos, and Istredd’s breathing evens out, “Was he at least successful in keeping the Monger’s essence contained?”

**_What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her._ **

The strange voice from before is still in his head, and Jaskier scowls at its presence.

“Jaskier?” she presses.

“Y-Yes.”

He lies, and to some extent, it doesn’t feel… intentional. Almost as though his answer was forced upon him, and he was made to read it aloud like some sort of prompt.

It makes his mouth taste weird, but Yennefer does not hesitate on it as he does.

“Well, this has gone to utter shit…” 

Yennefer stands, looking down to Istredd and then to the room they have teleported to.

Jaskier still lingers on the additional presence in his skull as the mage moves her light about the room, illuminating the space for her to see.

It’s a large room, built of stone as Jaskier had felt with his hands earlier. From the boarded up windows and the state of aged decay in the room, it’s obvious that this building has not been used in quite some time.

Moth-eaten rugs line some of the stone floors, and wooden bunk beds have collapsed from the rot they have endured from time and mold. The large fireplace at the end of the room is full of cobwebs and even some dead sprouts of grass or other plants, and it only further pushes Jaskier’s desire to know where the fuck they are.

**_Your Witcher knows of this place, little lark._ **

Geralt knows where they are? But how?

It’s literally just a dark room full of despair and a forlorn air. How on earth could Geralt recognize this?

But it’s then that Yennefer’s light travels further up, casting the wall above the massive fireplace with a bright glow, revealing something above it.

Along the wall is a tapestry. And despite the fabric being faded and torn, Jaskier could recognize that damned wolf ensignia anywhere.

“We’re at Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier’s voice is all but a whisper, “The fabled school of the Wolf…”

Yennefer hums, “With the Monger as aggressive as it is, if we are going to have any luck at capturing Geralt, there would be no place better than here for us to do so than here.”

**_She wants to play games, little lark._ **

“Isn’t… Isn’t that because they changed humans into Witchers at Kaer Morhen?”

“Yes,” she replies, her tone grave but her mind resolved, “But that was a long time ago now.”

Jaskier scowls, but he moves to stand. His head swims a little, and the troubadour winces as he gets up to his feet.

**_Does she understand that she will not win?_ **

“I’m hoping that there is still something for me to use here that isn’t rotten to hell. Otherwise, this might have been for naught.”

With disdain, Yennefer kicks an overturned chair, and the wood all but splinters from the impact.

But, there is another wooden crack from across the room, about three yards away from them both.

Jaskier jumps, his head turning towards where there apparently is the main door of the room they were in. 

Bits of wooden boards go flying across the floor, and a piece continues its path until it stops under Yennefer’s boot. Her fine features are set about in a scowl, and the sorceress raises her hands, her palms glowing dangerously blue with her Chaos.

Light filters in heavily, and Jaskier is forced to blink, his pupils adjusting as the shadow of a frame stands in the doorway. There is a glint from a sword in their hands, and the telltale metallic clanking of armor as the form of this new arrival stops in the doorway.

“No use for your Chaos, witch. You’ll be dead before you utter your first spell.”

A worn but authoritative voice of a man emanates from the bulky figure, and Yennefer looks as though someone put piss in her ale with what it has told her.

Still, while she somewhat lowers her hands, she does not do the same with her guard.

“Who are you?” she demands.

“I can ask you the same damn thing,” the figure approaches, and without standing directly in the blinding light from outside, his features become more apparent.

He’s an old man, with long white hair swept back from his features. His face is riddled with wrinkles and scars, all speaking of a long, brutal lifetime he’s lived. 

However, if there’s one thing that is more telling than anything, it’s the man’s eyes.

A familiar amber— slit pupils that narrow dangerously upon them.

**_Another Witcher._ **

“My name is Vesemir,” the aged Witcher growls, his lips pulled up in a snarl, and he points the tip of his silver sword towards Yennefer, “Care to explain why you just teleported where you’re not welcome, _witch?”_

Lowering her hands placidly, but Yennefer still narrows her violet eyes upon Vesemir. Her distaste is obvious at that moment, as they seem to be having a power play of some sort.

 _Fresh confidence versus old wisdom,_ Jaskier supposes.

“Our visit is about one of your beloved pupils,” she answers back with just as much heat, “Does the White Wolf of Rivia ring a bell?”

Instantly, as though he were struck, Vesemir takes a step back, and Jaskier can see that surprise is often not something the man shows, let alone feels. 

The aged Witcher sheaths his sword, and he eyes Yennefer as though she had cast a spell on him anyway.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s chest tugs at the name of the other Witcher, and Vesemir takes another step forward, his concern evident, “Is he alright?”

“He may not be if we don’t act soon… There’s been, well, to say the least, some _developments.”_

Without worry of Vesemir’s initial threat, Yennefer closes in the distance and holds her hand out to the old man.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

Hesitantly, Vesemir shakes the witch’s hand. But their greeting is brief, and Yennefer lifts her chin as she continues.

“I apologize for making this so brief, and for intruding on Kaer Morhen as I have, but circumstance has forced my hand as well as the issue we face,” pivoting her head over her shoulder, Yennefer glances back to where Istredd lies upon the ground unconscious, “Do you have a place you could take us?”

Vesemir notices the unconscious mage, and then, to the bard that stands around in confusion a few feet away.

“I suppose I do… You all are in the old quarters of the school that are no longer in use. But the main hall and building, while in some disrepair, are far more welcoming than this.”

The aged Witcher enters the room, heading over to Istredd while he turns his attention to the bard.

“You, boy— help me with this.”

“I’m not a boy!” despite his scowl, Jaskier still complies, hurrying over to Istredd’s side, “I’m almost twenty-five, I’ll have you know!”

Chuckling, the aged Witcher does not refrain from further humbling the troubadour.

“Still a boy.”

Yennefer even snorts at Vesemir’s antics, leaving the bard to huff as he hooks one of Istredd’s arms over his shoulder.

The fire in the back of his throat recedes, and Jaskier swallows oddly as he feels it retreat somewhat. It feels as though the heat he was feeling settles in his stomach, waiting low in his gut for the moment.

_What on earth could that be?_

**_They don’t need to know I’ve gotten you._ **

Right… The Monger.

At his realization, there is a foreign chuckling in his mind.

**_Well, they don’t need to know just yet._ **

As Jaskier aids Vesemir with Istredd, he sets his lips into a thin line, looking ahead as a grim feeling overcomes him.

He wants to open his mouth and scream, to warn them about his apparent hitchhiker, but he finds his jaw unwilling to lock, and his tongue held in an unseen vice any time he attempts to open it.

The heat is back, swirling and as hot as ever, and Jaskier feels sweat begin to collect along his brow as he keeps trying to cry out to Yennefer and Vesemir.

**_You think I don’t know what you’re up to, little lark?_ **

Dread feels as heavy as the vice the Monger has on his tongue, and Jaskier stumbles a little while carrying Istredd, his legs almost crumpling at the realization of how helpless he is.

But instead of taking it for what it truly is, Vesemir huffs and regards Jaskier with a slight glare.

“Pick your legs up, boy. You’re not a Witcher, but you’re not _that_ weak either.”

That chuckle returns.

**_They don’t know how weak you truly are, Jaskier._ **

**_But I do._ **

Jaskier’s mouth goes dry, but he knows better than to push against the force that is the Monger’s influence. Not only would his efforts be futile, but he has a damning suspicion it will not get him anything pleasant as a result.

**_Let’s see how they want to play first, Jaskier…_ **

It’s then that Jaskier feels it, a small swirling sensation moving from his mouth and then to the recesses in his gut. 

He realizes, with a cold sense of terror, that he can _feel_ the Monger move inside of him.

“So what seems to be wrong with Geralt?”

Vesemir’s voice makes Jaskier flinch, but the aged Witcher ignores the bard in favor of the sorceress that walks behind them.

“It seems that he’s encountered an entity that has yet to be dealt with. Something pre-conjunction… Istredd, the poor bastard you’re dragging along, was doing work on relics in Lyria when this entity was freed, and it’s been wreaking havoc ever since. Twelve people are already dead within a month’s time, but now… unfortunately, it’s taken Geralt as its latest host.”

Vesemir’s worn face is drawn up in concern, and he hums. 

It’s too familiar for Jaskier not to feel a pang in his chest.

“This entity have a name?”

“It calls itself the Więcej, but some of the relics that were found with it call it the Monger. It consumes people, and seems to have an affinity for fear... From what we’ve gathered, it’s a corrupted Djinn that has somehow turned parasitic before the conjunction of the spheres.”

“So you have the attitude and powers of a Djinn, but it has an autonomy of sorts, and is powerful enough to possess a Witcher,” Vesemir shakes his head, “Just when you think you’ve seen it all…”

“Left unchecked, I worry that the Monger will take advantage of Geralt being its host. But, it seems there are some things that I’ve come to notice with it. Limits of sorts. Maybe weaknesses.”

“Like?”

“It seems it can only function with a host, unlike a Djinn. It must have a corporeal form to be able to function as it does, and it is bound to their host until their death.”

A scowl passes over Vesemir’s aged features, “Then is that what is to happen with Geralt?”

“Unsure… But I would rather stop something like that from happening before it does…”

“And how are we supposed to do that?”

“As of right now, I do not know... My guess is that we capture Geralt and go from there.”

Nodding, Vesemir rubs at his chin, “Even if we couldn’t get the Monger out of Geralt… We could prevent the Monger from killing others through him… If the populace knew a Witcher had killed innocents so openly, possessed or not… I imagine it would have similar implications to when humans first tried to eradicate us… It’s a time I do not wish to see again.”

Looking ahead, Jaskier shits Istredd’s unconscious form along his shoulder as they climb a small set of stone steps, leading to a large, stone construction. It’s worn by time, with some of the walls crumbling at the top or vines that tether themselves amongst the cracks in the rock. Other foliage grows proudly amongst the start of Kaer Morhen’s ruins, and tall grasses sway in the breeze, crinkling and greeting them.

From behind Jaskier and Vesemir, Yennefer sighs. The witch sounds tired, worn from the recent toll on her Chaos and from her frustration at the situation, surely.

But, if there’s one thing Jaskier has learned about her over the past day that he’s known the mage, it is that she is as stubborn as she is regal.

**_If she is smart, she will see she is too stubborn for her own good._ **

Swallowing, Jaskier tries to ignore the Monger’s commentary as Yennefer speaks up at his back.

“Do you have any dimeritium?”

Vesemir hums, and he glances over his shoulder to the sorceress.

“Yes. But may I inquire as to what you desire it for?”

“Silver doesn’t harm the Monger, but dimeritium does. So much so that the Monger was contained in a box of it, which Istredd handled _foolishly_ before we came here,” glancing over his shoulder, Jaskier can see her usual wall of confidence crumble just a little, “Otherwise, I do not know much else about how to contain this Monger… Istredd found out most of what we know through his relics, but they were left behind in Lyria when I was forced to teleport here to Kaer Morhen.”

They approach a large, castle-like keep, and Jaskier eyes the stone wolf that marks the large doors before them. 

Passing by Vesemir and cutting in front of the men as they handle Istredd, the sorceress approaches the doors to open them for the bard and aged Witcher.

“And what caused that abandonment?”

“The Djinn tracked us from Vengerberg to Istredd’s research site in Lyria. It was attacking us just a few moments ago... I’m guessing it hitched onto our portal somehow. And while it managed to physically teleport somewhere within our proximity, it did not follow us to our exact location, like a proxy of sorts.”

At the witch’s admission, Vesemir shoots Yennefer a glare as they enter the keep, and there is a newfound urgency in his step.

“So you decided to teleport again, knowing that could happen? And to bring this so-called Monger here to Kaer Morhen almost instantly, no less?”

“This was the only place I could think of that could possibly help us capture Geralt,” Yennefer fires back, “The Monger is somewhat affected by its host’s physical limitations… It seems to have garnered a bit more power by having a Witcher as its plaything… So his strength, his abilities… The Monger can’t be physically contained by usual means while it possesses Geralt,” snidely, the witch adds, “And what better place is there than Kaer Morhen to trap a Witcher?”

They lay Istredd down onto a large, wooden table in the foyer of the keep, and once the unconscious mage has been placed upon it, Vesemir faces the sorceress.

“I don’t believe you understand the severity of this,” the aged Witcher turns towards the witch, and he crosses his arms over his armored chest, “Kaer Morhen has not been in use for decades now. Things were left to rot. Decay. To be forgotten and left as a shadow in history.”

“And yet, you’re still here,” Yennefer points out, and her eyes narrow as she takes a step forward towards Vesemir, “You may be from a time long since past— a time people have wanted to forget, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t let it be erased entirely.”

Wiping a hand at his face, Jaskier can tell that Yennefer’s words get to him, and he lingers on his reply.

“There’s… there’s some things that haven’t been destroyed… Things I’ve hoped I’ve never had to use again…” Vesemir murmurs, “But you need to understand… For us to use them… You will be digging up a past that _we_ have tried to forget.”

“The past has already been dug up in Lyria, and now it’s out,” her words are hushed, sincere, “If we are to have any chance at saving Geralt, or for ending this Monger’s reign of freedom, then we mustn’t hesitate.”

Vesemir shakes his head, cursing, “I hope that this is going to work…”

“We can only try and see if it does…” Yennefer then looks to the floor, her brow creasing, “The only question is how I’m going to lure it here…”

“I can.”

It’s the first time Jaskier has spoken in some time, a feat for him, even without the Monger’s influence.

But he feels it this time, cloying against his teeth like a sheen of spit that is just a little too thick.

“You, as bait?” Yennefer asks him incredulously, “Do you even hear yourself right now?”

Jaskier blinks, drawing a blank. It’s not that he _wants_ to do this, per say. But he doesn’t have control of what he wants right now.

From his side, Vesemir crosses his arms over his chest, eyeing the bard with worry.

“Do you know what you are asking for, son?”

_Not me who is asking._

However, Yennefer doesn’t look convinced, and she places her hands on her hips, her violet eyes narrowing on the troubadour, “Why should we use you as bait? Do you really think the Monger would come for you?”

“Yes,” the bard answers back, and he _hates_ how it sounds so unlike him.

But Yennefer doesn’t know him too well to see the difference. They’ve only spent about a day in each other’s company, while Vesemir is practically a stranger to him. 

They don’t see the warning signs. The red flags. Something that is so obvious to Jaskier that he wishes he could scream at them, to protest what is happening to him.

If Geralt… If Geralt were here, free of the Monger, he would immediately be questioning what is going on.

But he’s not here. He is not free of the Monger.

And neither is Jaskier, apparently.

**_I’ve enjoyed our game, albeit brief, little lark._ **

“It did mention it liked how you tasted…” Yennefer murmurs, and Jaskier watches as she brushes her dirted chin reverently as she thinks.

**_But I am done playing._ **

Looking back to the bard, Yennefer’s gaze narrows, and she lifts her head to regard him.

“If we are to use you as bait to lure our possessed Witcher here to Kaer Morhen, do you understand what that entails?”

Jaskier nods, but he remains quiet. A slight tremor works its way into his right hand, and Yennefer smirks at its appearance.

The sorceress scoffs faintly, and she approaches him. There is something in her violet eyes, like a spark that proceeds the wildfire it causes as she comes close, her voice growing low and sharp.

“He will _hunt_ you,” Yennefer whispers, as though she is reciting some sort of spell, bewitching as she is sardonic, “You cannot hide from him. You cannot outrun him. You cannot overpower him.”

Jaskier swallows, but he does not waiver. Not even as Yennefer begins to circle him.

Despite the tears in her dress and the dirt that clings to her form, she remains as entrancing as ever. It’s as though she’s a fever dream Jaskier can only spot from the corners of his eyes.

Her words come to Jaskier like a mirage, a silhouette muddled in fog. The only solid sensation coming from her being the race her words bring to his heart.

“You will be at the Witcher’s mercy.”

That _should_ scare Jaskier.

But it doesn't.

“I’ve known Geralt for five years,” Jaskier replies, his words clairvoyant for the first time since they portaled out of Lyria, “I do not fear him.”

**_Don’t you realize, little lark?_ **

“He’s not who you should be afraid of.”

Jaskier’s attention turns to the aged Witcher in front of him. Vesemir eyes the bard with scrutiny in a way that a teacher would their student— an artist would their clay.

At his interruption, Yennefer loses her gleam, stopping her dance around Jaskier before she goes to stand beside Vesemir. She seems a little put out that her show has ended, but it seems like Vesemir is not one for theatrics as he sends her a brief look of warning.

“We can dress it up however we want, but the truth remains the same no matter how you try and change its appearance,” beside him, Yennefer rolls her eyes lightly, “If you are to be a lure, you need to realize it’s not Geralt who will answer to it. _The Monger_ is what you will be dealing with. It is not something you’ve spent the last five years with. It is not Geralt.”

“I…” Jaskier licks his lips, feeling the Monger slide away once more as he finds his own voice, “Maybe it doesn’t have to be…”

“Then you either love him, or you lost what little wits Melitele happened to give you,” Yennfer’s words are scolding, but she quickly loses her fire in light of Vesemir’s cold, glare, “But who am I to stop you?”

Jaskier’s cheeks burn accusingly at Yennefer’s barb, and he shies away, trying not to draw attention to it.

But it’s not their attention that he manages to spare himself of.

**_You do love him._ **

The Monger’s voice is damning as Jaskier hears it, and his heart skips a beat at its sudden curiosity. He feels it coil at the back of his throat, and Jaskier’s eyes water as it slithers back into his mouth.

**_Plans have changed, little lark._ **

“The Monger is already nearby. The only question is how we get it to find us, even with a lure.”

“It’s already on its way,” Jaskier replies, but his words are not his own.

Yennefer’s brow pinches, and she scowls, “How would you know?”

And in the distance, a familiar, damning sound ensues. 

A howl, the same as the one heard in Lyria, creeps upon the air like a chill from the cold.

Vesemir lifts his head at the sound, and he looks to Yennefer accusingly.

“Why do I feel like there’s something else you didn’t care to tell me?”

Cursing, Yennefer glares at the aged Witcher, “There isn’t much time to discuss every detail now. Where is your dimeritium?”

Vesemir motions with his hand for the sorceress to follow, “You’re lucky I just stocked back up.”

Quickly, the witch goes over to Istredd. The poor sorcerer is still unconscious, and Yennefer whispers something in elvish near his cheek as he lays upon the table, as vulnerable as he is limp. But after her uttering some spell, a small barrier appears around him. Sigils appear on the floor, glowing purple in a way that makes Jaskier take a voluntary step back.

As he does so, Yennefer’s attention turns to him.

“If you wish to be bait,” she hisses, looking irritable with the blood that drips openly from her nose, “it would be best if you start now.”

Vesemir begins to protest, “Now hold on just one moment—”

“We can’t _hold on,_ Vesemir,” she seethes, “You either help me capture the Monger, or I do it on my own.”

A dark look passes over Vesemir’s face, but he remains where he stands.

“I can’t let a human confront something he cannot deal with just to spare us some time.”

“You were fine with it before,” Yennefer argues.

“When we had the option to prepare and ensure no harm would come to the bard,” Vesemir shakes his head, “But this? This is sending him straight into an early grave!”

“Well, if you’re so goddamn hung up about it…”

Turning angrily, Yennefer opens her mouth, ready to utter one last barrier spell to protect Jaskier before it was too late to do so.

But as she turns, looking towards the opened entrance of the keep, her spell dies in her throat as Yennefer finds that the bard is nowhere to be seen.

“Jaskier?” Yennefer’s voice gains an unusual tone of worry in it when there is no response, and Vesemir curses at her side, _“Jaskier!”_

xxxxx

_“So you don’t hunt during the winter?”_

“No.”

Jaskier tucks his knees into his chest, trying to keep out the chill of the cold that his doublet does so poorly at doing. 

Across from their makeshift came, he sees Geralt, the silver-haired Witcher taking care of his silver sword with an intimacy that speaks of long, habitual practice. Jaskier watches curiously, his lute abandoned by his feet after the cold seeped to deeply into his fingertips for him to play any longer.

Now, much to the Witcher’s dismay, his attention has moved to Geralt.

“I suppose it makes sense. Granted, it’s only the start of winter, but I can imagine you can hardly accomplish anything here in the Northern Realms once the snow starts falling on the regular.”

Geralt hums, and Jaskier shivers.

“So if you don’t hunt during the winter, what do you do during the meantime?”

“I wait it out,” Geralt answers simply, as though his brief explanations are enough to sate Jaskier.

They’re not.

He’s nineteen and fresh on the road with the notorious Geralt of Rivia. It’s hard for him to contain himself, even in the few months he’s spent in the company of the Witcher.

It’s as though he is living a very long, lucid dream. And at times, he fears he is finally going to wake up.

To be back in that sad tavern in Posada, singing songs he knew were horrible and eating the food that was flung so hatefully at him.

It would be cruel.

“Is there a place you try to go to when that happens, then?” Jaskier presses further, trying to shirk off his nerves, “Most cities can’t seem to stand you passing through, so… It must be hard to find a place that can tolerate a Witcher in their midsts for several months.”

“There is a place I tend to go. But I don’t believe I can visit it this year.”

At this, Jaskier shakes his head, his confusion obvious, “Why not?”

“Change of plans.”

Jaskier snorts, “But you don’t have plans for the winter.”

Lifting his amber eyes from his blade, Geralt sends a cold look the bard’s way. But as much as he tries to be intimidating, it doesn’t work on Jaskier. Not anymore.

Not after the _Edge of the World._

“Well, winter is fast approaching… The first frost was just yesterday,” Jaskier points out, “What did you plan on doing for it then, since you aren’t going to indulge in old habits?”

“We’re not too far outside of Temeria… I heard that they have something plaguing their city... There was even another Witcher who’d gone there… Ran off with his coin but did not slay the monster killing their people,” Geralt’s voice dips in an unusual way, and as the Witcher stares absently into the flames, Jaskier can see there is something painful about those words to Geralt, “That’s not what we do.”

Memories of Dol Blathanna emerge in Jaskier’s mind. 

Spring. Freshly bloomed flowers. Warmth in the air. 

The gold light of the sun and the grasses that swept the Valley of Flowers just as easily.

The taste of rust and salt in his mouth, and a sharp, pounding sting of his cheek.

The burn of ropes tied taut against his wrists, with Geralt pressed firmly at his back.

It was then that not only did Geralt demand mercy for Jaskier, but that he spared it for Torque. For Filavandrel.

Geralt could’ve killed Torque, but he didn’t.

Geralt could’ve left without giving Filavandrel hope and coin, but he didn’t.

Geralt could’ve allowed Jaskier to be beaten or even killed, but he didn’t.

There was a strange kindness about Geralt. A sense of esteem, of care. Something that all of the people who despised him were certain that the Witcher didn’t possess.

But it was obvious to Jaskier the Witcher had a code. He had a sense of honor. A distinction that he carried into more than his work whenever he fulfilled a contract.

Dare Jaskier to even edge along the territory of saying Geralt had _morals._

And for this other Witcher to have done as he has…

Jaskier can tell it disturbs the Witcher greatly.

“You want redemption,” Jaskier murmurs.

Geralt shifts, and he seems to be uncharacteristically unsettled as he glances with ire towards the bard, “There is also coin to be made.”

“Maybe not, if the previous Witcher already ran off with it. And most likely they do not want to pay another Witcher in light of what one has already done to them,” Jaskier pauses, whispering, “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Geralt’s lips press together firmly, but he doesn’t reply. Instead, he goes back to cleaning his sword. His movements are a little too gruff to be anything other than upset.

“How come you claim you don’t care about others’ opinions when you’re now going out of your way to change them?”

 _“Jaskier,”_ the Witcher warns, setting his blade down against his thigh.

“You’ve told me countless times that what I am doing is pointless. That I can’t change the world’s mind about Witchers. About _you,”_ Jaskier scowls, “And yet, you want to go to Temeria to do the same…”

“It’s not about _opinions,_ Jaskier,” the growl from the Witcher as the human staring at him, and he watches as Geralt sheethes his silver sword, irate as he is ungentle with his scolding, “This is an apology. One that I must offer, from my clan to theirs…”

Jaskier says nothing now, even as Geralt stands, frowning.

“It is not to save our image. That has long since been tarnished, even before I ever became a Witcher myself… But I’m doing this to spare us something worse than a bad opinion, Jaskier.”

Softly, the bard asks, “Like what?”

Sighing, the Witcher walks over to Roach. His chestnut mare regards him as Geralt goes to where he has covered her in a few fur pelts to protect her from the cold. He is gentle with her, and Jaskier can see the immense amount of trust his horse has with him.

Could a monster truly garner that?

Still, Geralt removes one of the pelts. But as he does so, he speaks.

“Before you were even born, there was a point where _we_ were hunted just as much as the monsters we were tasked to rid the world of… Witchers were almost eradicated out of existence because of the objection our creation brought...” turning, Geralt regards him, “If word got out about a Witcher stealing coin without fulfilling his contract, then we surely would find the last of our kind snuffed out... I can’t let that happen again.”

Frowning, Jaskier remembers the old wives tales.

The days when Witchers were greater in number. When four schools trained them to be lethal, effective machines, ripping away and mutating out their humanity.

And because of that, the humans that created them loathed them. Regretted their existence. And soon, they were met with riots. With pitchforks and torches. With curses and hate more vile than any of the creatures they were mutated and trained to face.

Countless Witchers, rounded up and slain like rabbits for sport.

And for _what,_ exactly?

Geralt approaches him then, and in his hands is the pelt from a rather large gray wolf. Jaskier remembers Geralt taking care of it a few weeks ago, having tried to scavenge off of Geralt’s latest kill.

And now, it seems its fur has been given a higher purpose, as Geralt takes the pelt and lays it across the bard’s back.

Jaskier’s cheeks heat, and he looks to Geralt, pulling the ends of the large pelt across him. It instantly snuffs out the cold, feeling soft between his fingers as Geralt steps back, staring at the human in front of him. 

It makes Jaskier gain a warmth inside of him, one that the pelt could never offer.

“T-Thank you.”

Geralt hums, and he goes over to where he has laid out a few furs and his bed roll for himself on the opposite side of the fire.

“Go ahead and get some rest,” the Witcher orders, but there is none of his usual grit behind it, “We leave for Temeria in the morning.”

Geralt lays down, his back facing the bard as he does so. 

Pulling the wolf’s pelt closer to him, Jaskier stares at Geralt, feeling one last bud of curiosity bloom within him.

“Why haven’t you run me off yet?”

Geralt says nothing, not even offering a hum. His hair shifts in the wind, and his chest rises and falls with even, paced breaths.

“It’s just that, you… you don’t seem like someone to allow people to get too close,” Jaskier murmurs, and he doesn’t miss the slight tension that picks up in Geralt’s shoulders, “So why are you letting me?”

“You’re too stubborn to know better,” Geralt answers, but he does not turn over or move, “I would have to kill you to stop you from following me.”

At that, Jaskier scoffs, “I’m not _that_ clingy.”

Finally, the Witcher moves, but it’s only to turn over and set a doubtful look onto the bard. And damn Geralt— damn him for only having to raise a brow to cause Jaskier to sputter indignantly.

“You— well, by Melitele I’ve never been so affronted in my life,” Jaskier puffs, “To be insulted as I am! By a Witcher, no less!”

“With how people were treating you in that tavern in Posada, I have doubts that my words are the most offensive you’ve been given.”

Pouting childishly, Jaskier waves an arm, looking away from Geralt, “Maybe not… But I don’t value _their_ opinion.”

_I value yours._

It goes unspoken, but it is known by both of them.

Especially as Geralt pivots the rest of his torso and leans on his elbow, facing the bard.

“You should,” there’s a subtle warning to Geralt’s words— an edge that can’t quite cut but can dig in nonetheless, “You got your song out of me. That should’ve been enough for you to go back to Posada or anywhere else to get your desired coin and praises. If you continue to run around with a Witcher, however, you can expect that some people may not take kindly to such a thing. ”

“They never took kindly to me before, so what’s the difference?” Jaskier murmurs, “I’m not going to live my life in fear, Geralt,” and with more softness, Jaskier adds, “Neither should you.”

“I don’t live my life in fear.”

“No. You live your life in theirs,” Jaskier corrects, and his brows furrow.

As the fire crackles between them, the Witcher’s amber gaze studies him carefully. There’s a slight pinch in his lips, as subtle as the wind that shifts the lengths of his silver hair.

“All I’ve ever heard about you is how evil you are. That you thirst for blood like it’s ale, hunger for death like it’s a provision... People always told me you’re a heartless bastard who is a monster in his own right,” Jaskier chuckles without too much humor, and he hums, “But you’ve cared about me these last few months more than anyone else ever has in my life.”

Geralt says nothing, but his eyes shift away into the woods. 

It’s easier, Jaskier thinks, than to confront what the human has just told him.

“I know I’m annoying. I know that sometimes I get into trouble. I know that you don’t always agree with my songs, and I know you definitely do agree with my intentions with them,” pausing, the poet grips onto the edge of the wolf pelt Geralt had covered him with, feeling so bare for the Witcher despite it, “But I haven’t kept following you not for glory, for yours or my own… I have kept following because it’s the only thing that makes sense to me.”

Scowling, Geralt shifts back onto his side.

“Then you are senseless.”

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not,” the bard whispers, staring at Geralt’s back as the Witch tries to reposition himself against his bedroll, “But you are if you think no one is capable of caring about you.”

The Witcher remains silent and unmoving, pointedly facing away from Jaskier. Silence lapses between them, their conversation replaced with nothing more than the faint sound of Roach grazing and the breeze rattling the dying leaves of the forest around them.

With a soft breath, Jaskier readies himself for the night, flipping over and facing the Witcher with his back, his eyes scanning out into the dark blur that becomes the nearby forest.

Cold does not settle in his bones.

But, as he thinks of Geralt—

The self-loathing, solitary Witcher. The lone White Wolf of Rivia.

Plagued with misunderstanding as often as the world is ridden with supernatural tragedies he must remedy. To have been created into something he had no choice in. To be hated by those who changed him.

To have lived countless lifetimes without being understood.

Without _love._

—something _else_ does.

xxxxx

**_You love him._ **

Jaskier finds his feet carrying him forth, away from Kaer Morhen.

He can hear Yennefer yelling after him, but Jaskier does not stop.

He runs, finding the nearest thicket of trees, where the wind blows the strongest and that familiar howl called to him before.

And again, as it does so now.

Geralt.

He’s close.

**_You do not fear him._ **

The bard’s doublet gets caught onto branches, but he pushes on, ignoring the rips of precious fabric and the stinging against his skin.

There’s a pull in his chest, longing and desperate as the sun begins to set overhead. 

A slight chill in the air accompanies the advancing darkness.

But it does not stall Jaskier.

In his pocket, Geralt’s medallion _vibrates._

**_You fear for him._ **

Short, sharp breaths pass over Jaskier’s chapped lips, and he looks ahead into the black expanse of the trees.

His heart races, and he feels something coil in his stomach.

A brief silence lapses, and Jaskier tries to hear over the sound of his heartbeat in his ears.

And then, he hears it.

Without getting a chance to react, something bounds into him at his side.

The force is not kind nor light, and Jaskier yells out as he is forced against the ground. 

The momentum behind the hit causes Jaskier to skid a bit in the dirt, and the bard winces as he feels a solid weight on top of him as a low rumble rattles the air above his head.

Not realizing until then that he had closed his eyes, Jaskier opens them, coming face to face with the white werewolf that the Monger had Geralt become.

Its red eyes still train on him as it lifts its lips, a growl coming out of the recesses of its throat as it opens its maw. Lines of saliva branch between its pointed teeth, a few of their tendrils bowing down enough to smear onto Jaskier’s face.

The bard breathes out roughly, trembling a bit under the large, clawed hand that pins him to the forest floor.

“G-Geralt,” Jaskier pleads, his blue eyes meeting those lurid ones above him, “Geralt, I know you can hear me—”

**_You sully your taste with that rancid hope of yours, little lark._ **

“I want you to know I got help! I did as you asked!” Jaskier rushes, and he can feel his stomach flip, the Monger growing tired of his control as it rushes up his throat like bile, “They’re coming! They’re going to try and get it out—”

**_I do not intend to savor that horrible flavor for much longer._ **

Jaskier gargles, feeling the Monger coil up in his throat. 

It’s choking him, cutting off his air in a way that the weight of the Monger’s hand does not. He coughs, only seeming to inhale the Monger as it lingers in his throat, his eyes wide.

_“Jaskier!”_

At the sound of Yennefer’s scream, the Monger turns its head, looking to where the sorceress approaches. 

Her violet eyes widen as she sees Jaskier pinned under the Monger’s wolfish form, and she quickly raises her hands, yelling out several Elvish incantations.

Like before, when setting up a barrier for Istredd, multiple runes appear around them both, disturbing the leaves on the ground and causing them to fly up. They glow purple as they did before, and the Monger loses interest in Jaskier, vying to snarl at Yennefer as she holds up her hands.

Jaskier coughs as the Monger’s essence moves away from the back of his throat up onto his tongue, right as it charges Geralt’s altered form into the ring that surrounds them.

A shock sets it stumbling back, and the wolf once again snarls.

_An entrapment spell…_

“You waste your time, witch.”

While spoken through his voice, they are not Jaskier’s words, and Yennefer seems to realize this, as startled as she is struggling to uphold her spell. Blood drips from both of her nostrils now as Vesemir appears behind her, readying what looks like a chain made from a metal Jaskier can’t recognize.

His face is drawn up in an impassive and unimpressed manner, and he finds that Yennefer's face twitches with his apparent change.

_“Monger,”_ the sorceress hisses, “You got to the bard, too.”

“He’s under my influence. Albeit, I don’t intend for him to be much longer,” the Monger makes Jaskier say, “He’s quite problematic, no matter how good he and his Witcher taste together.”

Yennefer hums, and she nods to Vesemir.

While the witch struggles to uphold her spell, her exhaustion and strain evident, the aged Witcher approaches the werewolf that stands before him. It snarls, splaying its arms and crouching a bit in an intimidating display.

But, Vesemir is unfazed. He quickly takes the end of the chain, swirling it until its humming through the air with its speed.

“Do it now, Vesemir!”

“You all will come to regret this!” Jaskier yells, and it feels as though the Monger is bubbling against his tongue in anger, “Especially you, _Yennefer.”_

The chain is tossed through the air, and despite the Monger’s attempts to avoid it, Vesemir does not miss.

The wolf snarls, and Jaskier feels himself recoil as it wraps around Geralt’s altered form, seering the skin. It pops and bubbles in a horrible way, causing the wolf to collapse in agony.

In his mouth, he feels the Monger’s essence vibrate against his tongue, slightly losing its grip that it has as the wolf beside him collapses against the forest floor.

Jaskier sucks in a sharp breath, feeling as though his head were coming above water as Yennefer’s barrier begins to flicker and weaken.

“Y-You pathetic _bitch!”_ Jaskier shakes his head, trying to dislodge the Monger from his tongue.

Yennefer pants from where she stands a few feet away, and for once she looks properly disheveled, not holding her usual air of confidence or composure. She looks raw, torn open before him.

And Jaskier can _smell_ something wafting from her, something acrid and festering.

Is…

Is that _fear?_

Vesemir busies himself with containing the wolf in front of him, the beast wailing in anguish. The sound is morphing, landing somewhere horrifically between human and beast as it thrashes against the forest floor.

“You’re still scared you’re not going to be good enough,” Jaskier hisses, “ _Rejection_ — of all the things to be afraid of, you chose something so pathetic!”

His eyes water at how his tongue stings, feeling as though the Monger were wrapping tight around it. And as its vice worsens, Jaskier doesn’t miss the way he can taste rust and salt as he continues to blurt out the Monger’s words.

“But it’s befitting… You’re not good enough. Even after all magic did to change you— to better you, _you’re not,”_ Jaskier’s bodies thrashes much like Geralt’s, and the bard feels as though water is in his lungs, his voice rasping as he yells, “You weren’t good enough for Istredd! For Aedirn! For anything other than _disappointment!”_

Yennefer approaches him, looking as irate as she is worn thin. That flame in her eyes is back. But instead of heat, there is a disturbing type of coldness to it.

As she stops in front of Jaskier, he laughs, blood coloring the lines of his lips as he feels as though the sound is wrung from him like pinched cloth.

“You wouldn’t even be a good host—”

Grabbing the hair at the nape of his neck, Yennefer forces Jaskier’s head back. She glares at the bard, a hatred he has never seen from her plaguing her eyes as she brings her fingers up to his forehead.

_“Sleep.”_

She must have used her magic, as Jaskier feels something wash over him like fog rolling over a lake in the early morning.

Comfort. Quiet.

Things turn fuzzy as though a veil has passed over his eyes. 

The pain from his tongue numbs into blissful nothingness. 

The sounds of Geralt changing back from the Monger’s chosen form blots out until it feels as though cotton fills his ears.

He blinks.

And then, there is darkness.

xxxxx

_“Toss a coin to your Witcher, o’valley of plenty!”_

Jaskier plucks the strands of his lute with practiced finesse, and most of the tavern sings along with the tune of his chords and voice. Albeit, drunken and sloppy, and some with no ear for how their tone comes across.

It’s still better than earlier, when Geralt and Jaskier had arrived. The village was nearly rioting once they new about the Witcher’s apparent arrival. They were almost run off, cast aside and turned onto the road, had it not been for Jaskier’s quick mind and tongue.

In the middle of the road, as people gathered round, their hate and distrust as evident as their pitchforks and torches, Jaskier broke out into song.

Music. This is why he started playing.

For people to begin feeling one way, and to end with them feeling another.

He wanted connection, he wanted _recognition._

His music was one of messages. Of stories told, as moving as they were brazen. An expression so devoted and poignant that empathy could be their only reaction. 

And thankfully, it was.

Despite the mod that greeted them, Jaskier’s singing quickly won them over. It was so successful that Jaskier wondered if he were somehow part siren, even though he knew it were impossible for him to be.

He was human. Frighteningly human, to Geralt.

But in moments like this, Jaskier felt nothing short of divinity.

The tavern is as lively as ever, with the finely dressed troubadour dancing about, circling from table to table as he recounts his best ballad to date. His bruises barely register as he trapezes about, striking the strings to Filavandrel’s lute with such joy that he feels as though nothing could bring him down.

Of course, apart from a disgruntled Witcher.

As his ballad ends, cheers erupt from the crowd, all who proceed to place money in Jaskier’s coin purse. He thanks them, but his attention is not on the tavern’s patrons. At least, for any except the familiar one brooding one of its corners.

After collecting his due and wishing the drunken patrons a fair night to follow his performance, the bard dismisses himself.

He doesn’t miss the amber eyes that break off of him the moment he is free and moving in their direction.

It’s so achingly like Posada, with how Jaskier finds Geralt. Tucked away at a table in the corner, a mug of ale on the table alongside an empty bowl of stew.

But most of all, it’s that look on Geralt’s face. That hardened, walled off look, that has Jaskier slipping onto the bench across from the Witcher out of concern.

“You alright?” the bard asks.

“You done singing for the night?” Geralt asks, glancing to the bard from the corner of his eye.

Jaskier quirks a brow Geralt’s way, and he hums, “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Nor do you with mine.”

Sighing, Jaskier grabs Geralt’s unfinished tankard of ale and drinks from it openly.

It must say something, how much he already trusts the Witcher. And of course, with how much Geralt has come to tolerate him, as he only rolls his eyes for Jaskier’s greediness.

Sucking in a deep breath once he resurfaces from the cup, Jaskier sets the now empty tankard onto the mottled table below.

“Yes. I’m done singing for the night,” he replies, glancing over to the group of men across the tavern from them, “They’re so drunk they couldn’t piss downward if they tried.”

A small chuckle from the Witcher has Jaskier’s attention moving back to him, “Doesn’t that make them the perfect audience?”

“No. Drunks are too brash, too waterlogged. They don’t truly appreciate songs for what they are.”

Geralt hums, “They don’t need to appreciate a song to give you coin.”

“No, but I want them to _understand_ it,” Jaskier clarifies, and he looks to the tankard, longing for it to be full, “There’s a difference.”

Geralt eyes him, studying the bard carefully for a moment. His gloved hands rest easily against the table, that is, until he raises one up, waiving the hostess that wipes at the bar several feet away from them.

Seeing him, she waddles over. She seems like a quaint older woman, her brown hair turning ashen with age. But, some of her wrinkles are not from time, it seems, as her face folds naturally along her smile.

“Yes, Mister Witcher?”

“If you could get the bard some stew and ale,” Geralt tells her.

Before Jaskier can open his mouth or move his hand, the Witcher reaches to the small pile of coin he had placed on the table, taking three and handing them to the woman.

She nods, smiling and taking the offered pay gratefully, “Thank you, Mister Witcher! I’ll get that right away for you!”

Geralt nods to her, turning his head away once the woman makes her leave. It’s then that he looks back to Jaskier, seeing the bard’s clouded and agape expression.

“You need to drink and eat,” the Witcher explains easily, unperturbed by Jaskier’s open sense of bewilderment at his recent actions, “I don’t need you fainting once we hit the road tomorrow.”

Huffing, Jaskier makes sure to close his mouth from where it was open, and he tucks his coin purse against his belt, “Well… I still could’ve paid for it.”

“Consider it as thanks.”

At his hip, Jaskier’s hand stalls. His head flies up, and his blue eyes widen a little as he stares at the Witcher.

“Thanks?” he echoes, “What on earth for?”

Geralt dips his head, and collects the rest of his coins from the table.

“For tonight,” he murmurs, and his eyes briefly meet Jaskier’s, “For abating the villagers’ anger.”

“That?” Jaskier breathes, and he feels something in him _keen_ at the recognition Geralt is giving him, “Oh, that was… Well, I did what felt natural at the time.”

“It worked,” Geralt looks back to the drunken patrons once more, his amber eyes squinting on them in a way that speaks of resignation, “Otherwise, we might have gotten a much worse welcome than this…”

“Hey ya go, love.”

Jaskier sits back, finding a bowl of stew and a fresh tankard of ale get placed before him then. The woman from before smiles warmly at him, and she nods to Geralt before turning and leaving them be.

A little famished, Jaskier eagerly grabs onto his spoon, and he is about to dig in when he stalls.

Geralt notices, and the Witcher quirks a brow at him.

“I can tell your hungry,” he murmurs, “Your stomach is about to growl.”

As if on command, his stomach _does_ growl, and it makes Jaskier huff before offering the Witcher a small pout for his commentary.

He only gets a singular, quirked brow as his response.

“Geralt,” Jaskier starts, and the Witcher stares at him, “I just… I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“That you’re treated the way you are… It… It isn’t fair.”

“Life rarely is. Witcher or not,” Geralt replies, his voice purposefully neutral.

Rolling his eyes, Jaskier pushes further, “No, it isn’t for anyone. But from what I’ve seen, it’s more so for a Witcher— for you.”

“This bothers you,” Geralt notes aloud, and Jaskier grimaces at him.

“Of course it upsets me! All you had to do was walk up to a village, and they were ready to gut you just for that!” Jaskier is sure to hiss his words under the roar of the tavern’s patrons— he might be an idiot sometimes, but he isn’t _always,_ “I don’t understand how you can tolerate _their_ intolerance.”

“Decades of training and patience,” the Witcher is a stone wall compared to the volatile bard sitting across from him, “When you are what I am— when you’ve lived as long as I have— you expect little else.”

“But you expected something different at one point, right?” Jaskier whispers, and he leans in, a mere foot only separating their faces, “Surely you wanted more than just this?”

Geralt hums, the corners of his mouth upturning faintly with a sense of sardonic mirth as he tilts his head at the bard, “I was never given a chance to expect any differently.”

At that, Jaskier deflates. His chest feels heavy at the implications, at the admission hidden in Geralt’s words.

He was given up as a boy, just as the tales have said.

A child, _abandoned_ at Kaer Morhen. 

A child left behind for a purpose they could not understand or change.

And it was a purpose they could not overcome or overrule— unless it be by death, or mutation.

_Geralt._

_He was never given a chance to truly be human._

“I— . . .” Jaskier blinks, finding himself reeling back just a little, and he grows unusually quiet.

“Do not pity me,” Geralt murmurs back, but there is no heat to his words— no offense to Jaskier’s unseen overstep, “Just eat.”

Jaskier looks at Geralt for a moment longer, like a dog with its tail put firmly between his legs, before he finally relents and does as Geralt instructed.

The stew is good. Warm, flavorful. The roast within it is spiced deliciously, and the potatoes and onions are soft and completely cooked through.

At any other time, Jaskier would all but moan at the taste and quality of the stew, but recent events have humbled the bard.

He enjoys the meal, but silently and with addled thoughts, each spoonful bringing more taste and more guilt to Jaskier’s conscience.

Geralt, however, remains quiet. He does not watch the bard eat, instead, opting to look out of the window and into the night that has fallen over the village.

The orange from the candles contrasts with the blue of moonlight from the window, and Jaskier can’t help but stare after him.

There’s no doubt that the Witcher is handsome. Alluring as he is striking. Even without his telltale eyes and silver hair, Geralt would be something to marvel at. He would’ve been something magnificent _without_ ever being a Witcher.

But what would he have been?

What color were his eyes supposed to be? His hair?

But more than anything, Jaskier wonders _who_ he would’ve been.

Would he have smiled more? Laughed? Danced and sung along to songs just as the villagers did to his ballad tonight?

Would he have loved? Married? Had children in a quaint house?

Lived to a ripe age that led to his hair turning white as it should’ve done?

Lived an unassuming life, as all humans do?

It would always remain a mystery— a speculation. 

But for one thing Jaskier is certain.

He would not be Geralt of Rivia. The White Wolf— the Butcher of Blaviken. The fabled silver-haired Witcher, born of Kaer Morhen.

But more than anything, he would not be sitting across from Jaskier now.

And maybe it’s selfishness. Maybe it’s greed. 

Maybe it’s something else that Jaskier does not want to acknowledge or name, lest he give it any more presence than what it already garners.

But Jaskier thinks that, if he hadn’t been given the chance to cross paths with Geralt, then that would’ve been the worst difference of all.

“You finished?”

Jaskier blinks, and he finds his spoon resting in an empty bowl. He hadn’t even realized he’d eaten all of his stew.

“Y-Yes.”

“Good. Now drink your ale,” the Witcher looks back out the window, “We need to go to our room as soon as you’re done with your ale. Lest you want to waste coin and sleep on the tables with the drunks.”

Jaskier grimaces, “No thank you.”

“That’s what I thought.”

The Witcher slumps back a little, crossing his arms and settling. He does not get up from his seat, which is surprising to Jaskier. Especially as the Witcher remains in his proximity, despite any conversation, and his attention focusing elsewhere.

It’s odd. Usually Geralt does not keep him company. Well, as much company as Geralt can be.

He is a presence, sure. Another mind in his proximity. But Geralt doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t respond to Jaskier’s energy in kind.

But he doesn’t tend to stick around Jaskier and linger if it is not necessary.

Jaskier knows he annoys the Witcher. He presses buttons, talks incessantly, constantly makes noise. For a Witcher, it must drive his senses haywire— after all, Jaskier knows how much he can be for humans at times. And for Geralt, they are almost stuck at each other’s side for days or even weeks on end. He imagines it wears on Geralt, after a while.

And it seems it does. For when they aren’t on the road, or there isn’t a lingering threat to the bard, Geralt tries to give _himself_ space from Jaskier.

So far, in the month he has followed after the Witcher, he’s grown accustomed to Geralt’s habit of adding distance when it was affordable.

But now… it seems he seeks Jaskier’s presence as much as Jaskier has sought after his own.

It’s strange.

It’s… something.

Jaskier downs the ale quick and hard. The fermented taste of it rolls down his throat in an oddly delicious manner, and it settles in his stomach alongside the stew, as satisfying as it is fulfilling.

As the bard sets his empty tankard onto the table, Geralt stands, motioning for Jaskier to follow.

“Come on,” the Witcher urges, and Jaskier, naturally, follows.

They head away from the main room of the tavern, walking silently along until they are near its rooms. 

Usually, they don’t tend to stay at inns. Not only is it expensive, Geralt usually prefers a singular room to himself. Not only for space, but because Jaskier believes that the Witcher doesn’t come by trust easily.

Of course, he’s a lowly bard. The only thing he’s truly fought with valor is the common cold, and his lute could do no damage to the Witcher. Geralt could kill him without second thought, and Jaskier is sure he’s considered it with how he’s grated him on occasion.

But it’s not a threat to his life that Jaskier poses.

No. It’s apparently much worse than that.

Jaskier poses as something the Witcher has never been confronted with before. A terrifying, foreign concept for someone of his kind. One far more dangerous than any dagger or spell Jaskier could ever bore.

_A friend._

Jaskier dares to think that’s what they are edging on the territory of.

After all, they cannot stay strangers forever, can they?

… _can they?_

Jaskier isn’t sure, but there is something telling to the fact that Geralt only has one key instead of two, and that he opens the door and motions for Jaskier to enter.

“One room?” he asks, his confusion evident.

“Either come in, or sleep with Roach in the stables,” Geralt tells him, but he’s as monotone as he ever is, “Your choice.”

Scoffing lightly, Jaskier brushes off Geralt’s abrasion, passing by the Witcher as he carries himself and his lute past the threshold.

“As much as I hate to say it, I believe you’re better company than your beloved horse.”

That earns him a snort from the Witcher, and he enters the room after the bard, shutting the door behind them both.

As he does so, the air changes, and Jaskier finds himself breathing it in differently as he goes to set his lute aside on one of the nightstands by the large bed.

The _single,_ large bed.

His face must say it all, as Geralt responds to him without a comment even being uttered.

“We can’t always get two rooms,” Geralt murmurs, his back facing the troubadour as he removes his swords from his back, “If this is something you’re not comfortable with, I suggest you rethink your traveling plans.”

“Not that at all,” Jaskier mutters, his cheeks burning as hot as the candles lit along the walls, “Just… didn’t expect this with you...”

A hum suffices as the Witcher’s reply, and Jaskier bites his lip, watching as he continues to remove the bulk of his armor.

The bard catches himself staring, and he forces himself to look away before the Witcher does the same. He decides upon sitting along the edge of the bed to work off his boots, and he purposefully focuses on that instead of the man undressing behind him.

It doesn’t take him long, however, and he soon lays back against the bed, his eyes staring blankly at the roof over their heads.

In some ways, it’s a pity he cannot see the stars.

Especially now, as Geralt blows out the candles, and their room is cast into darkness.

It could give him something to observe, instead of the movements that try to make his eyes wander at his side.

But soon, the bed dips with Geralt’s added weight, and Jaskier swallows thickly as the Witcher lays down beside him.

Thankfully, he’s not completely undressed. He seems to have been clad in layers, as there is a tunic overlapping his chest, and simple leather pants that cover his legs as the Witcher places himself right beside Jaskier on the bed.

And despite his best efforts, Jaskier’s eyes still wander, going over to see the Witcher in a state he’s never caught him in before.

Yes. It must mean something.

To see Geralt in something other than his armor. To be lying next to him, without a sword on his hip, or with his body pointedly turn in Jaskier’s direction.

That the Witcher immediately closes his eyes, slows his breathing, and falls asleep without a second guessing the bard’s placement at his side.

How they are close enough that Jaskier can feel his heat, can feel the way the mattress dips with his breathing.

It’s something he hasn’t felt since they were tied back-to-back in Dol Blathanna.

Geralt…

Geralt _trusts_ him.

The bard turns onto his side, carefully as he can to not be too much of a disturbance. But Geralt either doesn’t care enough to be bothered, or Jaskier is successful in his actions, because the Witcher doesn’t react to his movements. And truthfully, Jaskier doesn’t know which should mean more than the other, either way.

Still, even in the dark, he can see the loose lengths of Geralt’s silver hair. The signature tie he’d used to pull back the upper strands from his face is gone, and Jaskier tongue dances over his lips at the way it looks, falling over his broad shoulders.

It takes all of Jaskier’s will to force his eyes to close, to make his ears pinpoint the sound of horses outside the tavern instead of Geralt’s breathing in front of him.

_Sleep._

_Just sleep._

Jaskier is unsure how long it takes him to succeed.

Because, while his body is lax and his breathing is steady, his heart is not.

xxxxx

“Rise and shine, bard.”

A pounding is present against the front of his skull, causing a grown to pass over Jaskier’s lips as he opens his eyes.

At first, the room he’s in is almost too bright. He blinks, wincing until his poor eyes adjust.

The bard’s mouth is dry, his throat feeling wrecked while his tongue… oh gods, _his tongue._

He wants to speak, but _by Melitele,_ the _pain._

“I’m sorry.”

Jaskier lifts his head, not having realized he’d shut his eyes from the pain when he looks up. 

It’s Yennefer, and she’s eyeing him with something akin to pity as she stands before him.

He tries to speak, but he finds that he can’t.

“I’m afraid you’re mute for now, Jaskier…”

Mute?

Him? Jaskier?

_Mute?_

Does Yennefer not understand that he has never been synonymous with that word?

She seems to suspect his denial, and she levels him with a _look_ that has the bard relenting with his rebuke.

“You may not remember, but the Monger’s essence… When we captured Geralt, it seems that whatever reaction it had to the dimeritium we used had a nasty side effect with you…” she quiets, “Unfortunately, your tongue paid the price.”

Ah…

Right.

He does remember.

Although, he almost wishes he doesn’t.

Jaskier tries not to linger on the horrid memory, of the sounds of Geralt’s agony that mirrored his own as the Monger was cornered. Instead, he tries to focus on now— on the witch before him.

Yennefer is cleaned up now, with no blood crusted or dripping from her nose— but her wear is still a little obvious. While her hair is brushed and the clothes she wears are not dirtied or ripped as her former dress, there are still purple bags that compliment the violet color of her irises.

_How long was he out for?_

Jaskier looks at the sorceress, his brows furrowing as she lifts her hands, and she presents him with a cup. Its contents smell overwhelmingly of herbs— and oddly, like lilacs and gooseberries.

“This is to help with your tongue,” she tells him, holding it up to his lips, “To both heal and lessen your pain.”

Opening his mouth obediently, the bard feels the ceramic press against his chapped lips. At first, it stings. The liquid causes his tongue to burn and his eyes to water, but it’s quickly followed by a pleasant numbness that takes the pinch away from his features.

Yennefer seems satisfied with it, and with each sip, Jaskier feels less and less like a corpse left to rot by a roadside.

Once he has drained her concoction entirely, Yennefer lowers the mug, and she places it onto a nearby table while sighing.

“I should’ve seen that you were under the influence of the Monger before it did this to you,” she murmurs, “Istredd… He told me what happened. Right before we fled here, to Kaer Morhen.”

Jaskier nods, ducking his head.

“It didn’t have outright control of you, thankfully. There wasn’t enough essence for it to have gotten to you as much as it did Geralt, but… that still doesn’t change what happened.”

Upon hearing no scathing voice in his head from the Monger, Jaskier’s brows furrow, and he tilts his head at Yennefer. He motions to himself, making a circle and hoping it conveys his message to her.

“Its essence fled from you right after I used my spell to knock you out,” she explains, “It went directly to Geralt without trying to get to me or Vesemir. Like it had no other priorities.”

At the mention of the Witcher’s name, Jaskier stands. It seems as though he were in an older bed, and the loose collar of some unfamiliar tunic falls off of his shoulder as he does so.

Immediately, Yennefer catches him, the bard’s legs weak and unsteady, but his resolve too stubborn to allow himself not to continue pushing.

“Hey, _easy,”_ Yennefer huffs, but she is only slightly irritated by Jaskier’s lack of patience or personal wherewithal, “No need to hurt yourself further. Your Witcher is safe, despite the Monger.”

Brows furrowing, Jaskier looks at Yennefer as if to ask— _he’s still possessed?_

“We’re about to start the process,” the witch answers knowingly, and Jaskier thanks Melitele that Yennefer is either this clairvoyant, or that he is just that easy to read, “Istredd and I have been doing research as often as we can, as we think we’ve configured a way to remove the Monger from Geralt without him dying as a result.”

_Fuck._

_That’s_ —

“It’s not going to be kind, or easy… It will probably be extremely painful,” Yennefer offers Jaskier a small smile that lacks most of the expression’s intended warmth, “I imagine it won’t be much different than what he’s already used to.”

Jaskier wants to curse, but he can’t. He can only pull away from Yennefer a bit, looking around to take in his surroundings.

Behind him, Yennefer sighs, sensing Jaskier’s flight for what it truly is.

“I can let you see him… but just know it is not a pretty sight.”

_It doesn’t have to be pretty._

_It just has to be real._

_Geralt just has to be alive._

Walking in front of him, Yennefer motions for Jaskier to follow.

The stone floor below his feet is cool but clean, and the bard looks after the sorceress that walks in front him, watching as she leads him to a double door leading to an adjoining room.

“Ever since we captured Geralt, he’s thankfully remained in human form. His wounds from the dimeritium shain have healed to an extent, so I'm supposing that is why we didn't see any bites wounds from the Monger's initial attack from Arzirt... But still, it’s obvious that the Monger is starting to take its toll…” at that, Jaskier’s heart ticks, but Yennefer is quick to explain, “I believe it’s similar to when Geralt takes one of his potions, like Swallow… With you running after him for five years, you’ve surely seen the effects…”

Jaskier understands what she means then.

He’s only seen Geralt take one of his infamous Witcher potions twice.

Once with the Striga in Temeria, and the second when Geralt was faced with battling four wraiths at the same time two years later.

Jaskier still remembers what they had done to him very well.

He knows the Witcher potions are toxic. They would kill humans, even if diluted or portioned to a fraction of its original quantity. A single drop would send his body into fits, and yet, Geralt was able to down one without issue. Or at least, without it outright killing him.

It still bothered Jaskier. 

To see the amber of Geralt’s irises get overtaken. Until even the whites of his eyes looked saturated with pitch— until the warmth there was replaced with something void and frigid.

To see veins turn black against his sickly pallor, weaving under his pallid flesh like vines of ink. Under his eyes, along his forearms— even his gums turned dark, as though Geralt had been drained of all his blood and life.

They truly made the Witcher look inhuman.

They made him look…

Jaskier’s breath hitches at the sight before him.

They’ve entered the other room, and within it, Jaskier sees the situation unfolding before him.

Istredd is awake, talking quietly to Vesemir with pages and familiar slabs littering the table they lean over.

However, it is not their presence that catches Jaskier’s breath.

No, it’s Geralt.

Strapped to some sort of table, his wrists and ankles bound by multiple, metal clamps. His silver hair is dirted, falling in loose tangles over his face, obscuring him from the bard’s view as his head hands against his bare chest. There’s wounds across his skin, wrapping from the top of his torso to the tapering of his waist— angry and shockingly red. It almost looks as though he were burned, but Jaskier knows better.

Knows what it was from, with the damning outline of the chain’s pattern seared into Geralt’s flesh.

Jaskier’s heart falters, and Geralt breathes— slowly, sluggishly, his other scars even losing their vibrancy without how _pale_ he seems.

_He hates it._

_He hates seeing him like this._

Jaskier tries to say his name without thinking, and a small whine comes from his throat at the pain elicited from his tongue for his attempt.

Still, it gains him the attention he was seeking, just… not quite from _who_ he wants it from.

Geralt’s head lifts, but Jaskier is given a stark reminder of the peril the Witcher is in. His eyes are still red, but darker, muddled. 

But even with the strain the Witcher’s body is under, the Monger still seems to be relatively effective with its grip on it. It crooks the corners of Geralt’s lips in a dark, knowing smile, and the gaze that lands on Jaskier feels as familiar as it does foreign.

“You’re finally awake, little lark,” it greets him, and Jaskier can hear the strain in Geralt’s voice, his usual rough timber even grittier than before, “Enjoy my parting gift?”

Jaskier scowls, but he doesn’t move. No, he stares the Monger down, both anger and hurt filling his gaze.

“Someone’s upset,” the Monger mocks him, and it tilts Geralt’s head, his knotted hair falling about his face, all but making the Witcher look feral, “I, for one, am grateful. You may sing prettily, but your voice? Goddamn _grating.”_

“Ignore it.”

It’s Istredd, his calm, smooth voice, and Jaskier moves his attention to the other mage. He smiles gently at the bard, and he motions him over.

Jaskier sends a small glance at Geralt, frowning as he finds the Monger watching his every step.

And despite the curl in his stomach, Jaskier forces himself to disregard its attention as he walks across the room.

It’s not an easy task.

Istredd moves aside from his end of the table, offering Jaskier a spot beside him. Thankfully, Vesemir stands in front of him, and he sidesteps just enough to allow Yennefer to join him on his end, and together, they both block out those red eyes that have yet to leave him.

A hand sets itself on his shoulder, and Jaskier turns his head to see Istredd grinning at him.

“Glad to see you’re okay.”

Jaskier nods, ducking his head. He notices then that Istredd’s hands are healed as his palm falls away from him, and the bard smiles, offering the sorcerer an encouraging thumbs up.

It makes the others chuckle lightly before they get to business.

Yennefer is the first to talk, and she points to one of the two slabs Jaskier remembers from Lyria. He supposes that, during the time that he was asleep, they must’ve gone back to retrieve them.

“We’ve managed to translate most of the slabs found at the site in Lyria,” she begins, “There’s a simple incantation we must do, not only to contain the Monger once it leaves Geralt’s body, but to get it sealed inside of the box it escaped from.”

From behind her, there is a huff, and Geralt’s voice is as annoyed as it is gritty, “I can _hear you,_ you know.”

Yennefer snorts, “Good. It would be a shame for you not to realize what’s to happen until we’re doing it. Think it should be your turn to feel a little fear.”

At her rebuttal, the Monger goes eerily silent, and Yennefer smirks.

This time, it’s Vesemir who continues explaining their game plan.

“Luckily, I restocked up on dimeritium right before you all came to Kaer Morhen. Which makes this next part possible, but…” Vesemir wipes at his face, looking disturbed as he continues, his voice softening, “By using the equipment made for the Trial of Grasses, we plan to inject a liquid concoction of the dimeritium into Geralt.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen while Vesemir curses, hanging his head. Yennefer senses both of their discomfort, and she is quick to try and dispel it.

“When we used the chain made of dimeritium, it seemed the the Monger was almost separating from Geralt… Dimeritium shouldn’t hurt Geralt, but this method should force the Monger to escape his body in the safest manner possible.”

Jaskier meets her violet gaze, challenging it with his own.

_But that doesn’t spare him from the Monger._

He should know. His tongue hurts just a little, despite Yennefer’s herbal drink she had given him just some time ago.

The Monger doesn’t leave without making its mark.

Sensing his worry, Yennefer smiles softly at him.

“Istredd and I are both trained and experienced with healing magic,” she tells the bard, “If something does go wrong… we will do all we can to make it right, Jaskier.”

Jaskier only settles a little, and Istredd speaks up beside him.

“Once the Monger is in the box, we must finish the incantations to properly seal the Monger away… I intend to take it somewhere that something like this cannot happen again.”

Yennefer hums, nodding, “There’s not really much else to discuss… I have prepared the dimeritium solution for the past day. Vesemir just has to put it into the table’s vials, and in turn, get the needles properly placed into Geralt for the injections.”

Vesemir shakes his head, “I hoped I would never have to do something like this again…”

“I understand that this has a deeper wound for you. For Geralt. But there really isn’t any other way to go about this that I can see,” Yennefer sets a reassuring hand onto Vesemir’s armored shoulder, “If we do not act now…”

“I know,” Vesemir shrugs the witch off gently, standing up as he resolves himself, _“I know.”_

_Geralt will die._

It doesn’t need to be said, but it still terrifies Jaskier some.

There’s a chuckle across the room, and Jaskier can hear Geralt breathe heavily through his nose.

“At least you still smell good, little lark.”

Vesemir scowls harshly, and he looks to Yennefer.

“When can we get that damn thing out of him?”

“I imagine we can begin shortly… The concoction with the dimeritium is almost done brewing.”

“Good. The sooner we can try and get Geralt back, the better,” Vesemir glares in the direction of the other possessed Witcher, “I’m getting rather tired of its attitude.”

A hand on Jaskier’s shoulder draws his attention, and he finds Istredd beckoning for him. They move off to the side, leaving Vesemir and Yennefer to begin preparing their instruments.

“This may not be something you want to see.”

Ah. Istredd is trying to warn him.

_But it doesn’t matter._

Shaking his head, Jaskier points to the floor vigorously.

_I’m not going anywhere._

Istredd’s brow pinches lightly, his hand falling away from the troubadour, “If you wish to stay, then know you won’t like what’s about to happen… From what I’ve heard, the Monger reacts violently to it.”

Jaskier ducks his head, affirming his decision.

“Hm… I’ll give you credit, bard. You do more than just sit around and sing,” Istredd sighs, glancing past Jaskier’s shoulder, “I don’t think it’ll be too much longer now.”

Jaskier swallows thickly, and he turns, seeing Vesemir and Yennefer surrounding Geralt. 

The Monger has Geralt’s teeth bared, his arms flexing upward and pressing harshly against the restraints at his wrists. The entity focuses its glare upon Yennefer in particular, especially as she carefully begins to pour a dark, metallic liquid into the glass vials behind Geralt’s head. 

Vesemir is spared the Monger’s attention, even as he readies what looks like several tubes with long needles by inserting them into Geralt’s forearm. There are three, lined almost directly on top of one another, and Jaskier’s heart twinges at the realization that Vesemir is only halfway through with his work.

“You’re going to regret this, _witch,”_ the Monger jerks Geralt’s arms, causing the angled table he’s strapped onto to let out an ominous groan.

Closing the vials quickly, Yennefer lets out the breath she was holding, and she shakes her head, “Don’t believe I will.”

Vesemir finishes placing the last needle into Geralt’s right forearm, and Jaskier winces at how noticeable its length is under Geralt’s paled flesh.

“Vesemir, get to the back of the table to start administering the dimeritium. I am going to summon the barrier that is to contain the Monger as it separates from Geralt, and I will hold it for however long we need,” glancing over to the other mage, Yennefer nods his way, “Istredd is to prepare the box and begin the incantation for its entrapment once it has separated from the Witcher.”

Jaskier finds Istredd coming back to his side, wearing gloves as he holds the box made of dimeritium, signaling his readiness to the sorceress.

Taking a deep breath, Yennefer and Vesemir take their respective places, with the aged Witcher going to the back of the table and Yennefer standing in front of it. 

The room quiets, and Jaskier’s breath stalls as the witch raises her hands, a familiar looking circle of runes begin to appear on the floor as she speaks in long lines of ancient tongue.

The Monger growls, the sound inhuman even for Geralt, as it glares at the sorceress.

With the incantation complete, Yennefer glances to Vesemir for a brief second.

“Begin.”

The aged Witcher looks regretful as he begins to administer the first vial of dimeritium, turning the knob and causing the vile liquid to seep down through the first set of tubes.

The reaction is immediate once the dimeritium reaches Geralt.

The Witcher’s eyes close, pinched and harsh, as his body begins to shake. Absent twitching soon turns to spasms, and soon, the Monger pulls Geralt’s lips over his teeth in pain.

The first vial empties.

“Again.”

Vesemir readies the second vial, and the dimeritium travels down the tubes and into Geralt’s forearms.

This time, the reaction is not as kind.

Geralt yells, deep and low, echoing in the large room they are in. His neck flexes, tendons popping like taut strings against the expanse of his flesh, spittle flying past his clenched teeth.

The skin of his forearms turns blue, his veins turning black and beginning to appear under his skin from where the dimeritium travels their lengths.

The table he is in shakes, the wood creaking as he begins to trash. The clamps holding Geralt’s wrists down press harshly into the skin, enough to begin turning his flesh purple with the start of deep bruises.

The second vial empties.

There is a humming in the air, and Yennefer squints her eyes as she seems to hold the barrier harder than she had before.

In Jaskier’s pocket, something vibrates.

_“Again.”_

The bard’s hand moves down into the pocket of his trousers. Apparently, they are still the ones he had been wearing the day prior, and it comes as no shock to him with what he feels within its pocket.

His hand knowingly fits around his possession.

He pulls it out.

The third vial is already being emptied into Geralt, and this time, the Monger reacts the worst.

Geralt screams. His throat sounds wrecked as he does so, but Jaskier knows there is no way he could stop.

Not as his wrists press so tightly against the metal straps on his wrists that it splits his skin.

Not as Jaskier sees a familiar black liquid begin to seep out of the impressions from the chain along his chest, bubbling and beginning to pool together in the air over Geralt.

The table growns, and Jaskier _swears_ that he can hear wood splitting—

One of Geralt’s arms frees itself, the metal bracket snapping away from the table and falling off of Geralt’s wrist from where it was ripped away from it.

The needles rip out of his forearms, and blood mixes with the dimeritium, running and intertwining in rivulets along his forearm.

“Shit! The third vial didn’t finish!”

About half of the dimeritium remains, and Vesemir curses, his arm adjusting behind the table as it practically skids along the floor with Geralt’s struggle.

“I’m having to hold the dial! If I don’t, the dimeritium is just going to leak out!”

Yennefer lets out a frustrated noise, _“Fuck!_ If we try and fix it, we could expose ourselves, and we won’t be able to use our magic to contain or trap the Monger!”

Istredd looks between them, lost and unsure of what to do as his concern grows.

But Jaskier…

Jaskier knows.

He knows, and he tightens his hold on Geralt’s medallion in his hand.

The bard takes a step forward.

“Jaskier?” Istredd calls after him, but Jaskier does not hesitate or linger in light of the mage’s confusion, “What are—”

_“Don’t you dare.”_

It’s Yennefer, and she is glaring daggers at the bard as he steps in front of her. Jaskier doesn’t miss the blood beginning to seep from one of her nostrils, or the way her hands shake and sweat pools on her skin.

Jaskier ignores her too, approaching the runes holding Geralt and the Monger together.

The Monger and Geralt look to almost be separating, as the black liquid forms a vague form above the Witcher. It’s a face, with no eyes or nose, but countless sharp teeth that glisten as it opens its maw.

“Boy!” Vesemir yells at the bard from behind the table, “Stop!”

An unearthly noise comes from the Monger, and Jaskier clenches his fingers around Geralt’s medallion.

He steps forward.

_“Jaskier!”_

_Don’t you remember?_

Jaskier crosses the barrier easily, and he finds its edge to be like an invisible wall behind him once he is within it.

The troubadour ducks, going to grab the needle that openly drips the precious concoction of dimeritium onto the floor below.

_Witchers don’t feel anything._

The Monger curls, taking notice of the bard.

Geralt screams.

Jaskier does not falter.

_I think you feel too much._

The Monger weeps out of the wounds on Geralt’s stomach, collecting and drawing itself out of the Witcher.

And in turn, it begins to move towards Jaskier.

_I want for nothing._

Readying the needle, Jaskier grabs onto Geralt’s arm.

_Wanting something better than this isn’t selfish._

And to Jaskier’s surprise, Geralt grips him back.

_Things just don’t happen without reason._

Jaskier blinks, his eyes watering as he looks up, finding Geralt staring back at him.

His irises…

They’re amber.

Just like the fireflies.

_Does any of this need a reason to mean something?_

“Jaskier!”

The Monger hisses, but Jaskier only pays attention to Geralt.

_I don’t live my life in fear._

Geralt.

He’s finally back with him.

_You live it in theirs._

The bard readies the needle.

_I was never given the chance to expect differently._

The needle breaks through Geralt’s skin, and the Witcher’s eyes close.

His fingers wrap around Jaskier’s arm, his grip tight.

But just as Jaskier expected, even now, it’s not enough to hurt him.

_So you respect me, is that it?_

The rest of the dimeritium flows into the Witcher.

And Jaskier feels no fear.

_Thank you._

Geralt’s amber eyes fly open as the rest of the dimeritium flows into his veins.

The medallion in Jaskier’s hands shakes just as the Witcher does, that familiar hiss right by his ear now.

_For your song._

Geralt sits up.

And for the first time, Jaskier dares to say he looks scared.

A Witcher?

Scared?

What on earth for?

_“Jaskier!”_

_For your faith in me._

The Monger slips against his skin.

**_He loves you too, you know._ **

Jaskier can hear the muffled sounds of Istredd beginning to speak in ancient tongue, but all he can pay attention to is Geralt.

**_What a shame he has to lose you like this._ **

His tongue aches, and he tastes blood for his effort.

**_It’s what scared him this whole time._ **

But Jaskier is as stubborn as he’s ever been.

 **_But I told you_ **—

“I love you.”

— **_you aren’t going to win._ **

Pain. 

Blinding pain.

Jaskier isn’t sure what hurt, just that he does.

All over.

_“Jaskier!”_

There is another crack— something else wooden breaks.

The bard falls to his knees, and his Witcher manages to follow.

“The Monger! It’s in the box, Istredd!”

A hand cup Jaskier’s face, and he coughs, his throat feeling like hell as blood seeps over his lips.

Geralt looks him over, his amber eyes frantic as they move all over the bard’s body. His free hand darts around, unsure and shaking in a way that Jaskier has never seen.

“No, no, no— _no_ —” Geralt curses, and he leans over Jaskier, wounded in a way the troubadour has never seen.

There is a dripping feeling at the corner of his lips as Jaskier gurgles. His eyes slightly roll in the back of his head, and he rasps for breath, only to choke on the blood in his throat.

_“Fucking help him!”_

Someone drops down onto the ground beside Jaskier.

He smells lilac and gooseberries. 

And truly, it’s almost as welcome as lavender and thyme, now.

He distantly hears Yennefer speak in Elvish, and that blissful numbness from earlier washes over him in tandem.

_Don’t you remember?_

Jaskier feels Geralt lean over him, pressing his forehead against the bard’s.

His silver hair frames their faces, his breath hot and desperate against Jaskier’s lips.

And as they fall against him, his tears feel just the same.

_“I love you too.”_

The world darkens around the edges, and Jaskier stares into Geralt’s eyes.

Amber.

Like the fireflies.

Like the dandelions and buttercups growing in Dol Blathanna.

Sprouting forth like whatever has rooted between them both.

_Don’t you remember?_

Love…

This _is_ love.

_Witchers don’t feel anything._

And yet…

His Witcher _does._

xxxxx

_“Abort yourself!”_

“Shit!” a partial loaf of bread almost hits Jaskier square in the eye, but the bard narrowly manages to dodge it and the other food that is thrown out of protest towards him, _“Fuck,_ I’m so happy I could entertain you pathetic lot!”

Thankfully, the tavern’s patrons lose interest quickly, leaving Jaskier to stand awkwardly amidst the mess of stale bread and fruits.

Not one to pass up the opportunity, the bard dips down, quickly snagging a few morsels of food to fill his pockets.

While his performance left… _much_ to be desired, it at least fed him for the night. So, Jaskier would still count it as a success.

As he stands, the bard looks ahead, stalling from where he’s adjusting the new weight in his pants as he sees something of interest.

A patron.

A silent one, keeping himself separate from everyone in the tavern.

They say curiosity killed the cat about those who are nosy. And, despite not having gotten struck down yet, Jaskier is sure that whoever created the idiom had him in mind when they did so. Especially while he saunters over to this stranger.

He’s a big man, bulked with muscle and armor and— are those… are those _two_ swords?

No matter.

A hood obscures his face as Jaskier clears his throat, placing one hand on his hip and smirk across his lips.

“You know,” the bard starts, “you’re the only one who didn’t comment on my performance.”

“I have no comments to make.”

The man’s voice is deep and rough. He also doesn’t sound too pleased, but Jaskier is not put off by it as the man might hope.

No, Jaskier is _intrigued._

After all, while curiosity killed the cat, its satisfaction brought it back, didn’t it?

Sliding onto the bench before the man, Jaskier huffs, “Surely you must have one! You wouldn’t want to keep a man with…” Jaskier pauses, and he frowns a little as he finishes his plea, “ _...bread_ in his pants waiting, would you?”

A small huff comes from the man, but he does not lift his head, his face still hidden away by his hood.

“I think they said more than I ever could.”

Huffing, Jaskier’s voice is indignant with faint hurt, “Was it really _that_ bad?”

“Maybe you should consider another profession.”

The man stands, and Jaskier doesn’t miss the brief sight of his face the movement brings him.

“Maybe, maybe not…” the man begins to walk away, but Jaskier isn’t finished yet, “But I know yours.”

The man stops, and Jaskier stands, looking after him.

“Amber, cat-eyes. Silver hair. Two swords,” Jaskier breathes, and as the man begins to walk away, he calls out, “You’re the Witcher— Geralt of Rivia, aren’t you?”

As the tavern turns towards the Witcher, Jaskier doesn’t miss the added tension to his shoulders.

“Called it!”

_“Witcher!”_

Sighing, it seems that Geralt calls it quits with hiding away, and he slides his hood off as one of the men in the tavern approaches him.

“I have a contract for you,” it’s Nettly, and his expression is grave as he closes in on the Witcher.

“I’m not looking for work right now,” Geralt replies.

He begins to walk away, but Nettly is not so easily swayed.

And neither is Jaskier as he follows.

“I’ll pay you one-hundred ducats,” Nettly pushes, and Geralt pauses at the door of the tavern, “That’s what I thought…”

Humming with irritation, Geralt turns, pivoting just enough to glance back at Nettly.

“What is it?”

“A devil. It’s been stealing from us. Grain at first, but now medicines and clothes out near the edge,” Nettly grabs a coin purse that is tied against his belt, “Posada wants it killed.”

Geralt eyes Nettly for a brief moment, but then, he accepts the young man’s coin without protest.

“Consider it dead, then.”

Without pause, the Witcher pushes through the door.

Feeling something pull in his chest, Jaskier rushes after him, pushing past Nettly and after the silver-haired Witcher.

“Wait!”

Geralt is beginning to cross the long rope bridge in front of the tavern, and he does not turn around as he shouts back at the bard.

“Go away.”

“Let me come with you!”

Geralt does not stop, he continues walking.

And so, the bard continues to follow.

“Listen, I know that my songs aren’t anything to sing along to,” that makes the Witcher snort, bemused, “but I just need the right material! The right muse!”

“Then look elsewhere.”

“And pass up the opportunity to find inspiration with a Witcher!?”

Jaskier is at the middle of the bridge as Geralt steps off of it, and the bard rushes, making careful but quick work of his steps to catch up to the Witcher.

He still does not acknowledge Jaskier, instead, opting to unhitch a chestnut mare that is saddled up at the nearby post.

“The only thing you will find with a Witcher is death,” Geralt replies, his voice gritty and monotone.

“Death still writes songs. Sometimes, it may mean someone else is tasked with writing them once it’s over,” Jaskier challenges, “But, if I am spared that, I can write about you in a different, truer light.”

Amber eyes glance to him from over the Witcher’s shoulder.

“A _truer_ light?”

“I understand you Witcher’s have reputations. _You_ certainly do,” Jaskier offers Geralt a friendly smile, “The great White Wolf of Rivia, right? I mean, either people know you as that, or the _Butcher of Blaviken!”_

Before Jaskier can react, a fist connects to his gut.

The feeling aches deep in him, and a guttural sound escapes him as he all but falls down into the dirt below. The bard groans, coughing as Geralt brings his fist down to his side, and proceeds to mount his horse as the bard sputters.

“O-Okay, don’t like that one,” Jaskier squeaks, holding onto his middle, “Got it…”

Geralt gathers his horse’s reins in his hands, guiding his mare and turning her around to face the road. 

Hurrying to fix his lute, the bard sucks in sharp breaths as he jumps to his feet, running after the Witcher then.

As he catches up to Geralt, the Witcher growls.

_“Fuck off, bard.”_

“I shall not!” Jaskier huffs, “Listen, I apologize for that back there… But shouldn’t that just prove what I’m trying to do? Shouldn’t that have made you more interested in my offer?”

“I’m not,” Geralt grunts, “You would be smart to stop wasting your breath.”

“Well, you’re a fool to think I’d give up so easily! You haven’t killed me, nor have you galloped away on your mighty steed. I consider that to be acceptable enough!” Jaskier counters, and he rushes up to Geralt’s side, outholding a hand, “Jaskier, at your service!”

Geralt says nothing, and pointedly keeps himself facing forward.

Scowling lightly, Jaskier awkwardly lowers his hand, opting to brush the rust-colored dirt off of his poor trousers as he looks to Geralt.

“Well, don’t you worry, Geralt. Whatever happens next, I promise you, whatever song I write, it shall do you and your reputation justice!”

It earns him a snort from the Witcher, which is better than nothing.

Or a fist to the gut.

Nevertheless, he could be doing _better still._

Curious, he looks to the Witcher’s horse, pressing his luck, “Could I ride—”

_“No.”_

Jaskier nods, and he looks ahead, humming.

“Walking it is, then,” Jaskier looks at the road ahead.

It’s one that cuts through the golden expanses of Dol Blathanna.

Into where the dandelions and buttercups grow like the hopeful feeling budding in the bard’s chest. 

Glancing back at the man at his side, Jaskier allows it to bloom, warmth flooding over him like the kiss of the sun on his skin.

“So, White Wolf… Where am I to follow?”

And with a hum, the Witcher replies.

“To the Edge of the World.”

xxxxx

Lavender and thyme.

 _Why_ does he smell lavender and thyme?

Blinking, the bard goes to sit up, and he feels an ache pound away in his head. He groans, immediately placing himself back down against the bed at his back as he hears something splash down into water.

And then, a gentle hand places itself at his cheek.

“Jaskier?”

Forcing his eyes to open, Jaskier blurrily makes out Geralt’s face in the faint light. 

His Witcher looks cleaned up. His hair is brushed, his skin is washed. Dare Jaskier to even say Geralt even looks moderately rested.

He’s dressed in a simple, gray tunic and black pants, and Jaskier hums, enjoying the sight.

A smile stretches his lips, and he winces at how chapped the feel.

“Hold on…”

Geralt disappears, and Jaskier all but whines at the loss. He feels cold without the Witcher’s fingers against his skin, and he _hates it._

Still, he does not suffer for long, as Geralt quickly returns with a mug in hand.

It smells familiar, and belatedly, Jaskier recognizes it as the herbal remedy Yennefer had made him drink before. Except, this time, it’s stronger, and there’s something else present within it.

“You’re still healing,” Geralt explains, and he helps Jaskier lean up against the headboard that is apparently behind him, pressing the mug’s rim against his lips, “The… The Monger wasn’t kind before it was trapped… It injured your throat, tried to kill you… But Yennefer stopped it from being successful.”

Jaskier opens his mouth to speak, but Geralt stops him.

He tenderly places a finger under Jaskier’s jaw, lifting it up until the bard’s mouth closes.

“You can’t speak yet,” the Witcher murmurs, “Please don’t try. Even for me.”

Jaskier blinks.

That’s… new.

Before he can linger on it, the door opens, and two men that Jaskier doesn’t recognize waltz in.

They both are wearing armor, with one marked mostly in red while the other is clad almost entirely in black. They eye Jaskier and Geralt with humor, and it’s then that Jaskier notices something peculiar.

Their eyes…

Amber, cat-like.

_They’re Witchers too._

“Is your precious dandelion awake?”

“No need to tease him, Lambert…” the one in red chastises.

“Am I not allowed to have some fun, Eskel?” Lambert huffs, and he rolls his eyes, “I just wanted to see what the fuss was about. I mean, he skipped coming back to Kaer Morhen for _five years_ to spend his winters with this guy!”

_Oh._

Geralt…

Geralt was meant to come back here?

Groaning, Geralt wipes a hand along his face, “Glad to see you two are still righteous bastards.”

“And you are ever the romancer, with how you got this one singing songs all about the continent about you,” Lambert fires back, “But I hope you know we’re still disappointed! Something fun finally happens at this dump, and naturally Eskel and I miss it!”

Rolling his eyes, there is not much heat in Geralt’s rebuttal, “I can assure you, it wasn’t as fun as it sounds.”

“I’m sure it was more interesting than what we dealt with,” Eskel crosses his arms over his chest, his face folding naturally along the faint scar slanting along his face, “Found out that our mystical beast was nothing more than a boar, at the end of things.”

Chuckling, Geralt smiles warmly at the fellow Witchers.

“Glad to hear Vesemir is still keeping you busy.”

“‘Course he is. And don’t think just because you ran off for five years means you’ll be spared, Geralt!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it…”

“Well, we just wanted to check in you both now that we’re back,” Eskel smiles at Jaskier, “And of course, to put faces to some names.”

Jaskier offers them a small wave, his cheeks turning bright pink.

“We’ll leave you two lovebirds alone,” Lambert sighs, and then, he knocks into Eskel’s shoulder, “Say, there’s a witch here, I heard. Pretty hot, too. Maybe you should try and finesse yourself a little bit of cheek tonight, Eskel.”

Eskel groans, but together, they leave the room, shutting the door behind them.

Geralt shakes his head, and Jaskier would chuckle if he could.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, “Those two should know better.”

Jaskier quirks a brow, glancing back to the door as if to ask— _who were they?_

“Eskel and Lambert grew up with me, here at Kaer Morhen,” Geralt explains, “We all trained under the School of Wolf. We became Witchers together…”

Jaskier’s eyes lower, noticing the bruises and needle marks still present on Geralt’s forearms.

His calloused fingers trace them reverently, and he hears Geralt hum.

“It’s all been a long time ago, now.”

Jaskier’s touch stalls, and he looks up to the Witcher.

_Now._

What are they now?

Geralt hums, and he leans forward.

His eyes fall shut, and he places their foreheads together.

Jaskier keeps his eyes open, studying Geralt’s face carefully while the Witcher just enjoys their proximity.

_I love you too._

Geralt’s pleading admission plays in Jaskier’s head so frighteningly clear, it’s as though the Witcher had uttered it again. 

And his heart must do something, as Geralt’s eyes open, and he stares back at the bard.

“In all the years I’ve lived,” he murmurs, “I think… I think you’re the first person to ever make me feel human again.”

And at that, Jaskier breaks.

He can’t stop himself. There’s no possible way. 

Not with those words.

Not with Geralt so achingly close to him.

He presses forward, his chapped lips seeking Geralt’s own, chasing after the Witcher as he’s always done so naturally.

And he tastes…

He tastes of lavender and thyme.

Jaskier makes a small noise, his lips parting against Geralt’s own. He feels the Witcher slide a hand under his jaw, cupping Jaskier’s face and pulling him closer.

He feels like warmth. Like the sun. What the flowers long after once they burst through the soil, eager to flourish among the countless others that do the same.

But Jaskier…

He isn’t like the others.

No.

 _He’s_ something different.

The bard grows greedy, but like always, Geralt is the calm to his storm— the rock to his sea.

He pulls their lips apart as Jaskier’s hunger attempts to consume them both, separating them with a chuckle.

“Always so eager,” Geralt notes, his eyes falling closed once more.

Jaskier still stares, and he presses an insistent hand against Geralt’s chest.

It forces the Witcher to regard him again, and Jaskier pushes, ghosting his lips against Geralt’s.

_What is there to fear now?_

He makes Geralt hum, but this time, it’s a pleasant sound. Not contemplative nor impassive. But content. Humored.

“There will be time for that later. When you’re better,” Geralt whispers, and then, he grows serious, “But first… I… I wanted to thank you. Again.”

Jaskier’s brows furrow, and he feels the Witcher pull away. He looks towards the floor, his amber eyes set into a hard glare as he stares at the stone below, as though it were at fault.

“I was… With the Monger,” Geralt starts, “I thought you were going to finally fear me.”

The Witcher’s confession causes Jaskier to frown, but he continues to listen.

“The Monger, it knew… It knew what I feared most… Lack of control. To become the beast that everyone accused me of being,” Geralt’s rough words soften, “But I was mostly terrified that it would make you think of me as everyone else does.”

Geralt’s hands ball into fist among the bed’s covers.

“You’re the only human who has ever openly accepted me, even when I pushed back… Even when I thought I was giving you so many reasons to change your mind,” Geralt chuckles lightly, “But all you did was change my own.”

Turning his head, Geralt looks to Jaskier, and his gaze is damning.

Heavy.

Forlorn.

Desperate.

The look of _longing,_ of an outsider who always found himself looking in, no matter what he tried to do.

And Jaskier…

Jaskier let him look.

Let him come inside.

Gave him a space in his heart.

Offered him an understanding the Witcher had never possessed before.

Offered him a love that the Witcher didn’t think he was capable of earning.

“I can’t thank you enough,” Geralt repeats, “for always proving me wrong.”

Jaskier moves, blind with impulse and instinct, until he comes to Geralt’s back. He drapes over the Witcher, leaning down beside his head as he envelops the man in a tight embrace.

Ggeralt hums, ducking his head as he leans back into the bard, his hand coming up to frame one of Jaskier’s arms tenderly.

It’s then that Jaskier notices the chain around his neck, and he smiles, his hand snaking past Geralt’s to disappear into his tunic.

Geralt offers him a quirked brow for his efforts, but the judgement is soon dispelled with what Jaskier’s hand returns with.

The medallion.

Shaped with the head of a howling wolf, the mark of _his_ Witcher.

Jaskier lowers himself against Geralt’s back, feeling the man’s warmth, his breathing, his _heartbeat_ — and he places the medallion against Geralt’s chest.

The Witcher mirrors the bard’s hand with his own, his eyes closing as Jaskier presses a gentle kiss to Geralt’s cheek.

_Thank you…_

It goes unsaid, just like so many other things between them.

Because while Jaskier used his voice before, he doesn’t even have to now.

And Geralt, he never quite had to speak for Jaskier to hear all that he couldn’t say.

_For accepting me._

Because, don’t you know?

Witchers _can_ feel things.

They feel fear.

They feel rejection.

They feel pain.

But _his?_

Well, Jaskier doesn’t want to brag, but…

Who else do you know that’s managed to make a Witcher fall in _love?_

It makes him smile, and he pulls Geralt’s chin towards him.

His Witcher hums, his eyes half-lidded and his lips upturned in a smirk.

“I have a feeling you’re not going to listen to me now either, little lark.”

And as Jaskier smiles brilliantly, mirroring his lips against Geralt’s own, he thinks—

_No._

Because really…

What’s there to be afraid of if he doesn’t?

**Author's Note:**

> Unfortunately, I don't intend on taking Witcher prompts at this time.
> 
> However, if you want shitty headcanon posts, maybe _small_ little fic escapades on Tumblr, then sure, hit me up.
> 
> Otherwise, ask me like google or submit shit at:  
> sunshinexlollipops.tumblr.com/ask
> 
> Songs in this fic:
> 
> Song of the White Wolf - The Witcher  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6uWWQnEsNzc
> 
> Toss a Coin to Your Witcher - The Witcher  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hqbS7O9qIXE


End file.
